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.