Where the Whole of Us Began with Paisley Prints

In the distance, cotton field weds to
valleys tracing migration's grail,
bends out of shape like a casualty.
Upon this wings of sun, I plait dead
hair into wigs while you haul opus
around house, clutching to the ends
of my voice made of glass. Borne
down from toiling the day's harvest,
I cut into ribbons the delicate lasso of
paisley prints, leaning to memories
of us jetting honey. So I turn, turning
into the weaves where the floor is
worn, leaching a tapestry to chroma
of grain and cornflakes. Mouth drops
with a wet thud, you lose boots by
the nest of fresh cut daisies calling for
shapes of my bebop kick-steps as
a demimonde, blood crest and charged-
breasts slick through the rough-edge
of this August summer.