The Twelth

This kiss, this sun on skin,breaking leaves give way to heavy steps.This path a mirrored dream,These brambles rip, tear - kiss. The broken skin, sky ripping. Shouting. Crackling.                  Burning.My mind full of an echoing shout:your words a scornful lecture, fading.The distant voices. The chorus of morning.

White Heron

Sinuous shadows in the wetcast by curving neck,the full breast,long legs that reach deep,reach intothe water's edge. Obsidian eyesbottomless, this tunnel without end,two discsed night skieswith stars dappling the dark,the whorl of worlds and sun,the fathomless,soundless journey. The twin nights seeking motion,hunting, searching, yearning. Rocky shore,slow filling harbor -a mirror capturing distorted grace,clouds doubled,scudding across … Continue reading White Heron

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 blindingyour fingers curled in mine,a journey without end

tremble

your breath with mine your fingers in mine tremble the illicit heat the catching passion this public space this intimate touch tremble your back arching under my palm that presses, pushes guides and holds you neck straining under my mouth, aching your motions, your cries tremble the flushing skin, the nails in skin. release tremble

A Ballerina, On a Shaking Shore

for W. C. Williams, and some others There is a flickering of midnight torches along the edges of Atlantic beaches, these shuttering retreats, ghosted fall houses of Eastham, Wellfleet's quiet drive-in, Truro's barque emerging above the waterline. Oh, Newman, what bitter jokes, and shambling hallos you wave, across a rocky continent, toes that know Pacifica … Continue reading A Ballerina, On a Shaking Shore

Horse Hair Skier

Your nails still refuse to drag along my skin. Snow leopard. You... Your nails retracted, tongue curled, folded. Padding away into a mountains dark crevices. Where I, kokburu player, goat tosser extraordinaire, mad skier across Tuvan skies, lasso in hand and elk before me... am still not allowed to pursue. My rope whipping out, unanswered, quivering, inept.