nets of nest, or two ducklings born that very moment on a log
love is a
silent language woven like
a japanese flower
whose petals
ripple in seas of pinot like
monet
painting a messy room
swallowed
by
a cup of tea a
butterfly drinks
resting her wings like
a sleeping city of
presssed dandelions
whose manes
remain a bookshelf for unfolding
pianos
travelers
tobacco
smoke in the wheel of
a bicycle
hidden and
ridden like
a bead of sweat
down the back of
a thigh that
sidestrokes highways
of sky
THE KICKSTAND
is a beekeeper's dream of
buttered shirtsleeves where
intimacy
is a pillow thrown against an ankle
like a banjo's
echo
calling crickets to
congratulate the eyelash that has
leapt
from
silky cheeks that sleep
like a surprise
waiting
to
WAKE