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.

The Eleventh

...morning, after morning,sun is burning, banished, clouded,cold in winter, ice wrapped round branches,shielded from spilling seed, numbed:the numbing of heat - kissing me like you mean it,when you don't - as frost lines our windows, drafts slip underfoot, bodies cooling, motion less certain, a faded blue eye, looking west across fallow fields,broken buildings.

In the Fall

And in the fall we go raking,bamboo-toothed tools ripping up the dry grass,sweeping leaves that crackle when dry -black spots amongst the hues of red and yellow,the camouflage of New England hills and dalesrustling under feet. And in the fall we go burning,burning,burning -the pits and chimneysturning seeds, water, earthinto heat, soot, blowing ash. And … Continue reading In the Fall

after midnight

And we will have, then,these mornings filled with long silences,fingers brushing bare shoulders -that pull away without remorse. And we will see, there,that naked form under shower water,the flash of flush skin under heated water -and we will not begin,unbidden,unwanted. And we will taste, then,salty, wet skin,our tears splashinginto clever coffee cups,sup and sip,the eruption … Continue reading after midnight

the echoing shore

Then there will be a sound,the thunder across the water,the cracking of the ice,the cackle of the clairvoyant -the whistle in a dark alleyAnd the sudden stopof ticking clocksBunin’s rageat marital order,Nin’s heatalong a geographic border -But, where does it begin?Whose voice is that, callingout along the river?What footsteps drag and dredge,quiver and disorderordered stones … Continue reading the echoing shore

toy

And in the darkness you found me -a tossed aside toy, dried tears and spit,the detritus of childhood smeared upon me. A ragged thing, bent into a corner -the attic's smell, old wood and faded memory,replacing cologne and the scent of bourbon. Lifted, turned, held up to dust-filled light -the dirty window bending beams,the heat … Continue reading toy

a river in my hands

Rattling around…rattling around…somewhere in my head thissound is rattling,breathing, likea living thing…. This sound, breathingmurmuring…living river,which tumbles rocks,carries white, rising foamand eager swimmers This river full,life, verdant, green rootsgrasses on the bank,the slippering, long, thickfishwriggling into the muck,riding the curves, the… Water flowing, veinsof blood, of water,coursing through wantonbeating, ragingheart,this primal ride,the murmur risingto screamraging, … Continue reading a river in my hands

This storm

The slight chillthat runs through the heated air –blue skies edging with grey,shades upon shades emerging. The bilious clouds expand,fluffed up by wind-filled mouths,rise along the blue,climb it’s back and rises along it the wind which pushes,kisses the backs of the clouds,eager urging, the grey banks forwards –the overwhelm the sky, fill itform a canopy … Continue reading This storm