Smaller Things

Geese at night cry forth to light
diminished, signal to winter's brief
distill that once again will widen
into something infinitely new.

Do we move towards smaller things
to see how large their utterance?
Worth of a dust-winged moth
depth of blackness at work in DNA?

Image isolated becomes poem
explodes into some other universe
brings us to our knees to think -
what births a star, what kills it?

Gravity pulls upon itself
lets nothing in, nothing out
until at the core, something small
begins to tunnel towards the taper

becomes embrace that in itself
holds all realization of departure.

Autumn

thoughts of your fingers
tangled in my hair -
mud and rain they come they go

Give Me

-- your tongue
thrust it down my throat
come bitter - fear;
salt lick all sadness
revel over sweet spots
until everything sour
be
comes

taste unexplainable
umami -
run your tongue all over mine.

Matisse - Joy of Life

Work in Progress

Were she to say
she loved you
what would happen then?
Why such word?
why now
such exposure of breast
such lickable sentence
there is nowhere to go
but here
that's what she said
just
here
he heard her say
that's all she wanted to say -
that's all he heard her say.

Man Behind the Curtain

Pay no attention
to the man behind the curtain

he's only there to fool
with his little box of doom -
it glitters in his hand to make you
look, to wonder what's inside
and all he has to ever do
is hold it there in the palm
of his hand, lid turned down
until you can't resist
the mind begins to twist
turn its nothing into some
thing green and slimy, or black
and deathly, until all you ever
see is the box, the glitter beginning
to form a name until you think
that box is yours and you should
climb inside, let it take you
down - once inside can't get out
there is no shine, there is no light
just all you ever thought it was
black and empty, full of doom
until the box becomes your brain
your brain becomes the box
and nothing can open
nobody can help
until the day you push against
the lid with the flat of your hand
and light fills the cavity
eyes adjust, you see her face
as she lifts up from the other side
at the precise time as the push -
she was about to climb in
the box had fooled her too
just as you were climbing out
together leave it all behind
become each others breath
discover glimmer in the truth of it
turn and laugh at curious shadows-
once you paid attention
to the man behind the curtain
--he was only there to fool.

Perhaps When I am Old

I will not cling but gather
with tired, withered arms
his fears collapsed in blooms of red
memories petals swept from stone

In single file, ghosts will pass
absorb into the softest moss
through eyes grown dimmer
I might see he -

who held then broke, such fracture
found in low sweet laugh, in tangled
thoughts, an ivy English scrambling
broken fences, my sad garden.

I may inherit -
heap of gravestones, burst
of poppies, my fingers crush
absorb the must, spill kept seeds

succumb such tulip
to stroke such length of tender stalk!
perhaps when we are old my love, perhaps.

Oasis

DeThrust

Oh subtle
Oh sudden!
closeness of withdraw
backwards slide over
hands and veins
liquid spills
until no squeeze
left to hold
you
uneager at thought
of such wet
open door softly
banging in hot breeze
don't need to go
only so many streets
to walk
only so many houses
with yellow lights
dark shapes caught in nets
still stale of curtains
a voice carries over
static on the line
static on the line

receivers drop
weep into my hands

Now was not the Time

to feel such hot breath
fanning my jugular
such reaction
the pulse there, just there

or to feel your sweat be -
coming into film noir lights
out, sprawled across such
wide sofa of discontent

the very one where she sat
or sits just as this very moment
her nostrils flaring ever so
towards the pungence of my scent.

The Archer

Her eyes two slits, precise as arrow
loops, turned parallel to earth and sky.
The plain was wide, horizon stretched
elastic as the linen string pulled taut
against her chest, her limbs as narrow
as the precious longbow made of yew
back to belly, sapwood to heart

chin cupped as soft as Cupid’s
iron adorned with Quail fletch
bound with sinew as if to bone, ivory
thumb-ring wrapped against pain of draw.
She stood erect, width of foot to width
of shoulder, left side to his, three
fingers poised as if to pluck a delicate
harp. She stood unconscious, blind

to sight– there was no noise, save for
sudden movement of their hidden
song, warm tongue of fleshy pull
whoosh of flight, an earthly thud.
Her form collapsed around itself
recoiled in the torment of her mark.
Two bodies fell together, softly
as purple clovers swathed black fields.

Pursuit

There are fields and fields of chases
countless poppies, wheat shafts
gopher holes littered like land mines
ready to twist any ankle that turns
around such entry to a home.

I will not chase you - no
instead, I will lie flat between
the golden heads, contemplate sky
listen for the sound of your feet
as you return slowly, weary of hunt
your long legs sinking tender over mine.

Inside my Outside

Gardens, full of us
sweet heads, yes nods
flesh of colour freckled
light soft, broad leaves.

No sting of thistle cloud
to scuttle whorl of petalled suns.
Here, press closer to ear
listen to thud of worms begin-
uproot of surface.

Honey

No whir of bee wings now
wax of empty honeycombs
no queen upon a throne of drones
no flowers spread in wait
no flick of tongue, no cry on entry
no prick, no swell
or itch or throb -

petals litter empty gardens
in tangled demise
of death's sweet sting.

Ode to Me.

Ok.

Let's be honest.
Both knees are shot
the left worse than the right.

I need reader glasses to see
if the filet mignon beats out
the salmon in ginger sauce.

I drink too much.

My ass is sagging.

What more would you like me
to say? It's only downhill from here?
I think not.

Darlin'
just don't say you love me - maybe -
there is still life in these knees.