Author Archives: Martin

About Martin

I'm just... filling time.

The Fourth

Your skin pressed to my lips, aqueous, a river to seek along, driven tossed and turned, your cries a guide, loons moaning along misty shores. I become your riverine captain, my fingers as recon soldiers, probing finding inlets, egress and … Continue reading

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The Third

Time without end. We move through the twilight sky, through noctilucent clouds – swimmers in a sea of early night, ice crystals attaching to our skin, reflecting and becoming stars. Lights in the dark, whorls of stars, sparks flashing between … Continue reading

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The Second

The next kiss, I as your guide, my hands on yours, guiding into woods, through dappled sunlight, among moaning trees, cracking leaves the scent of life breaking, birthing, burning. The wind that howls and shakes the leaves, the rain upon … Continue reading

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On Everest/ in snow

Husbands with children are sherpa lost in a blizzard on slippery ice where the air is thin blood vessels leak and ghosts begin to beckon -Martin Burns

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White Heron

Sinuous, curving neck, full breast, long legs reach into the harbor’s edge Obsidian eyes bottomless, a tunnel without end Seeking Along rocky shore, slow filling harbor a mirror capturing grace, clouds doubled, scudding across a fecund sea You strike, down, … Continue reading

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Fall Into

A path with people passing just there, but I cannot hear, I can only fall into us And your eyes are lanterns, guiding me, beckoning, and I follow, fall into us Your kisses are water moving down my heated skin, … Continue reading

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The First

The first kiss, and you as a conductor, your fingers pulling at mine, onto the train and into the night, curving over mountains, through tunnels Steam turning electric, currents passing through me, burning and blinding your fingers curled in mine, … Continue reading

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Yo Sindo

The dancer and the piano, My fingers on the keys her legs scissoring across polished wooden flooring, click clack of stabbing, rhythmic heels reflection up her body: the once youthful legs, spinning skirt blood red dress, bare arms spread wide … Continue reading

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On Ragged Mountain

There’s a luxury – a pleasure really, it’s that more not like the joy of an avocado (not to dismiss that joy, sliding along the skin, opening the ripe fruit to eager hands, fingers sliding into flesh to scoop and … Continue reading

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How I Read

When I was a reader, spine balanced under palm, fingers trailing along pages. words that almost moaned and whispered aloud. Eyes greedy, seeking understanding to know the body – the work at hand, moving from page to page, syllable to … Continue reading

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