Belgard

bluebells at our hairlines,
silver almost in daylight.
I would take your hand
to be still again
while the world pulsates
around us and our hay-
wire sifting glances.
they brought the blood
pouring to my cheeks
to urge my tongue
to make a word,
metallic serum to heal
our wounded knuckles.
but I couldn't. the silver
pooled against my eyelids
and welled into the breeze,
cold and comforting,
tangled among the bluebells
and the purple roots
of cherry blossoms
five blinks from oasis.