Because I cannot love you ( Read more... )

Awake before the sun
streams in you slide
out of bed, out into
a universe of breath
and light. Song rises,
pulse steadies, heart
opens. After the journey
you always come home.

the image that comes to mind is the heavy
door i just shut tight. oak, i think, with rusted
hinges. the weight, the care. a stone frame
with gaps. and the one with hidden panels,
wood from different trees: ash, lemon. i wish
sometimes i could draw. there's got to be
small bronze doors opening, a crazy mess like
Dali's drawers in Escherland.

So you lost your balance, in that tart dress, linking
hip to thigh, and the pain is a ragged thing, pulped
and groaning. Your thoughts scatter in the coming
wind, slicing the void of a pristine sky. A perfect
day in December.

that tight jawed woman
trys in earnest to block
out every word i bet she
crocheted that flat cap
and thins her own brows

.

that Catalan bloke
with the short
shrug sure knows how
to stink up a tram

.

that peep-hole-eyed
man better get ready
to tuck in quick

#3 ( Read more... )

Double mirrors

You sit in the furthest chair ( Read more... )

Topography ( Read more... )

hot calligraphy -
pink tip flickers, delights in
scented warmth, textures.

betrayal isn't
a glossy print spectacle -
it's love chewed, then spit.