2.
freight trains, “unrequited”, and customization of self
seeped into
us
trace flare shots
-promise……
wiggling her toes
in the water at the affection invitational
timid, at best
keeping
desire heaped
warm, this landscape
no longer barren
her lips were the most soft
when she spoke
about
us.

3.
hot breath
and what it suggests-
against the neck it shoots south
expectations not semantics.
tracing each rib
with an eyelash…..
its more than patience.
the ache of want- the kissing of each
toe
watching the back arch
knowing
for
at
least
now,
knowing
what
we
are doing.
-after worship
the sunlight illuminates your hip
there might even be snow
outside.

4.
when the softness ended,
and the tree shadow moved across the wall
at least,
until night swallowed it
and the empty was lit by cars
as they went to places
where there were other people
doing other people things like
loving, speaking in soft voices, falling apart.
if she where here
and she never has
or will,
the skylight would high-lite her pale skin above the knee beneath her slip.
i would want to kiss her there
but then she would have
to put down her
book.

5.
Roaring light
she pulls the hair forcefully
to bring me in, to make me aware
of her urgency.
When her flesh is covering my ears
i can hear
her heart throb,
and the endless spin of thoughts
stills and drops
through
all
the chakras.

There is no hurry here,
for her to have all the senses on fire-
freebasing erotic-
when we are in love
we are our own subjects-
trading rolls
i look into your eyes
as you enter-
you are
my god.

6.
olfactory bulb
when she reads
she is away
-selfish. of
course to want
when
wanting is not specialized
but suggested
is…..arousal?
her body is a minimalist sonata,
her mind the new complexity- all strings and kettle drums.
fear of hearing the cadence of my perversions
crossing some imaginary line,
humming softly
tracing the hummingbird wings
with
my tongue
on the daybed
hopping
for just a little
sunburn.

7.
Our Dichotomy- Arvo Paart, Brian Ferneyhough

Arvo Paart:

Passion cathedral of sound
when our souls combusted
love built on this long walk-
together, backs covered until the dirt does.
Lying in the quiet, our hands touching
it is a prayer, a mudra.
The giving in is not giving up,
nor is options capped,
it is that old couple
walking together in the fall
telling the same stories
and each day
it seems
new.

Brian Ferneyhough:

Steam press and oil rigs,
tankers full of milk, soldering iron
power drills, grain elevators
slow dredge of wet thick sludge
while jack hammer pistons thrust tulip spires.
Hot railroad ties lying in fresh warm dough-
each day it is fucking christmas
when i get to pull down
your pants and get to see
what kind of panties
you are wearing.

8.
rough-plaintive,
notions of acceptance.
church building only to be
taken down
once placed above
the mantle.
watching her eyes move
as she sleeps, dreaming
hopefully
of regained sight, new bearings, triumph.
knowing my part
is only a bit
on the stations of the loss.
still,
as conscious suffering dictates
we do good not for gratitude,
but to bend the bars a bit
on the cage
of our
own
lot.

9.
exiles
swift and clear-
measuring the dimensions of alone.
when its cold the quiet ascends
stillness of the trees punctuated by absence
of foliage that once was
acid washed greens to faded stop sign red.
sometimes at night- the beer will quiet the images
others, the crutch lay broken
or
given
up.

when sleep comes and the
mind is still, accepting the time
to work the things
out
that cant be sorted –
she is wearing candy apple green leggings
we are sober and its during the day
-just after we pulled weeds in the garden together.
it is not animalistic nor show tunes-
but devotional………

never having existed, it is more real
than whats here now
after the blinds
are raised
and most of the
bed
is still
cold.

10.
soft globes with
alert geography, connecting
the dots through nurturing
penetration. would
you enter me
with abandon, direct careful patient?
are/would you
offer
your toes for me memorize
to make vivid?
in the bright sun bathe
will you offer your
your hips as handles
for me to bury my
head
in
your sand?

11.
after the evil that comes
so easy
to those with control
the animals were piled and burned
for no apparent sacrifice other than
male bonding
god rolled over and fucked herself
with a handful of railroad spikes
the rust and blood
making a lovely sunset
that went pretty much went unnoticed
by everyone.

12.
day not wasted
watching brown hair
made neon by the morning window-
it spills like linseed oil on the pillow.
her deep breath haiku, the mystery.
sketching the curve of her ankle,
the small of the back leads the course-
a meal of soft love handle tummy
to rest a wet cheek after the iris has been opened
cleaned of nectar and released of tension.
the haunting sketchbook, her ?ngers
fold in prayer under her face
as she sleeps
and
the house is kept silent

13.
wishing it rough so
there is a chance to feel
anything again- the raped dopamine
it’s strip mined:
am so tired of this war.
the romance novel wrote of
alpha, strong, control-
take charge and now its all ruined.
the caress with urgent necessity drifted
as the soft voices tapered off.
once it was a union, now its a hammered blur of urgent feel
and than a vast nothing.
spooning nap and tender finger tips on clean sheets-
whats the hesitation?
the deer outside the door
looked up, saw it was still again
ate and then
ran off.

14.
frayed end tied
an aggressive shadow. the speaker
blown tweeter, blown woofer.
crane to hoist tired beyond these divisions.
act and action, featherweight denier.
all sorts of goodies buried in these ruins
monumental lack of words.
spigot pouring vowels.
trough trough trough
……….work
……….repeat
………………..spiral coated with nervous giggles
desperate at this alive thing, removed form the line of roses that separate
the shaft from the thorn.

15.
crank of disgust,
the honor roll murmur- this
spine
woven of maize and milk
huge fucking leap, this creeping stone
tired, beat after beat. rope burn
come devour all these flags cunt majestic
the soft spoken apology breathes like clouds stuck way the fuck out
no rain, the crystals snorted like a passage in a book with an awesome cover.
crooked bitch nails got it all set with the staple gun-
penetrate the waste, we are pregnant.

16.
bags of knives
dug handle deep,
hole dug, filled with rocks, rain water stretched like a trains labia.
the blue sky reflects on the blade
clouds woven with blood.
heap this crushing awake at the freezers wake,
silent the eyes are closed kissed
teasing
only putting
in one
inch
at
a
time, dragging the tip along each lip
nipples pinched
as the tongue
searches the inside
of her shitter
we are finally
home.

17.
glory hole
of the sole, paper cut
the legible requirement at the hands of
humiliation.
this row of speech tied to the ankle tied to the bedpost tied to the outside.
there is no podium here,
just a
hanging
there is actually nothing here
left wanted
disengage that heart,
put it in your pussy
and spit it out
into
me.
18.
huge mist of birds
the sky drizzled its wounds clean
chatter and fail.
the big lead up, the homage
the gift of honesty, fragility, the messy open
falling in heat, rubbed raw
these truths that hang like headlights- burdens
go ahead
take, we are nothing if we are not
givers.
take this fucking hail, rain pushed up and up, dropped-
up and up
until its just too much
and drops
collect it in a pillowcase
and beat the motherfuckers
while they sleep.

19.
the gesture of the melting snow
the upbeat rise of a blade of grass in december
the relaxed orange blanket of a country street light-
sometimes the smoke from the coal plant goes straight right and fades-
others,
it ends sharply to the left, a new shelf to the sky above the curtains
mostly it drifts up uncertain.
to love is not a possession.

20.
reciprocate
the long walk, the stone.
admiring the size and pace of animals paw prints in the snow.
there are a few angels
i am one
all angles and smooth lines, honest
my heart for you
is a divining rod
disproved by
science.
all this talk of combustion and its only the most distant fires
that can make these clouds
so lovely.
only the not knowing, the giving up
that ropes the days until
we are threadbare
and full of pride at not having let anybody in as we die
sure of our ground that we thought we are holding
but
are
now
buried
in.

21.
arms length
or farther
the shadows of the leafless tress
against the snow at night.
tapping the give up
the neat rows of surrender
lost warm hem of the stereo’s skirt.
letting in the selfish, damp cold of still air in a dark room.
touch is the hassle it takes to penetrate
and be gone. the water drips its story,
rests, falls in.
waiting at the window,
watching the lights from all the angles.
you never came, but spoke.

22.
where the deer sleep
when it burned last,
that shiny bride rowing a beached gondola
there were radio towers
tall enough to sing above the clouds
from the porch.
here, where the calm drifts like snow into pillow banks
there are coal towers
that breath their own songs into clouds-
like statements on the passing
days.
there is exile, retreat, withdrawal
but not defeat.

23.
spoke like wire
yell furnace brine
too many fists
furl and fold
these measures and standards
this heavy wooden globe
sold the told to home
scotch tape the whole experience
and wound it freely
snuggle notch on the waste
we paint only
landscapes

24.
such grace
there is a tender silence
when it is all done,
spoken for.
when the moments
shed, and the soft
face of “it is still, it is calm”
unfolds.
you
of
course choose
to not be there
holding ground against these
tyrants with flowers,
waiting, well hung like flags at half staff
this room has
at least four corners
pick one
and
dissolve.

25.
not a parade
stern softness, the trail
of the jet lingers in the window long after the plane has left.
wishing the sky, wishing alone.
the past is not really there until dug
and hung, the parade of glass house ball bearings-

this uncertainty-
no longer accountable
the scrutiny removed
the big change maker, and the pointless reasons.

hoping, when it is warm enough
and the frogs refuse
to shut the fuck up
the garden
will occupy the space
between.

anyway
anyway
anyway.

26.
built this tower
this sheet of statements.
lower lower lower this wound
this strip mining, this narcissism, this banking
to keep the voices of being in check
we harvest busy, masturbate the idle time until
we dissolve
this fury is lost, this fury is lost, this fury is lost, this fury is lost
doing the numbers this math of crooked bitch made by desire
this nothing, this nothing, this empire
of trust, trust me, i bleed into you, i give give give give give give
until my hurt is yours, yours mine and we consume this piss, we blur fuck
till we cant stand each other to the point of propping up
each other up to bury the forgiveness all over again
the birds in the field burn-
alone
fuck you,
i was alone
first.

27.
had something to offer
but forgot, not
much
the days catching up
and anything resembling handsome has
to be made up for now
in kindness, sweetness, honesty
love poems left on the bathroom mirror
tiny gestures and devotional lovemaking.
need a walking partner
garden partner
sitting in quiet partner……………………

so
you were there
in the morning while i made tea for us
and you commented that there
were many deer outside the window
even some fawns.
i think it pained
you a bit
when
you pointed out
that
there were no bucks.
i kissed your eyelid
as you looked at
the tea steaming
and realized
how alone this all is.

when the night came
you were
stripped of control
hands tied to the basement beams
when the belt hit your thigh
you bit your lip
and the blood dripped down your chin
tear-dropped and fell
on your nipple.
when the belt hit again
the drop fell
and landed on the top of your foot
where i bent
over and
scooped it in my finger
licked it off
and put
that
finger
in your ass.

when you changed your perfume
i knew
it
was
over.

in the
end
i visited you
often
knowing that death was there
for me after he came
and got
you.

i think i had a grasp on what love is.

28.
sitting
in the
yard
the moon is stuffed fluff white, heaving light-
bottle of beer
tipsy
the frogs have started their chorus-louder
than the distant cars.

the absence of neighbors, the
air is not heavy with tv, chatter, domestic clang
there must be a million
small things making
tiny
noise in the leaves.

the bulbs planted in fall
are now alert
periscoping
the spring.

patience.

29.
warmth
jagged hatch marks connected by
jet trails.
wrens and cranes, the soils
temper tested by endless snow melt.

for all
the cleansing process. research
on self, putting memories in nick knack racks
belie the blur, this whole starting new
becomes the
hole ending knew.

it has been too long
too long.

30.
the walls
are bare
upon choice-
there is no tv,
a bed,
a dresser
….sleep should not be busy work!

sunday morning
the wind blew the papers on the ledge
as the sun wormed its way in.
with quiet comes reprieve-
the freight train speaks in stutters and fades.

when the moon is as big as a whitewall tire
the blinds
almost need to be
drawn,

there still is time

31.
there was no
cloud like that
in the pages, but the sky next
the storm clouds looked just like the ones here-
blue, and then blue and some more blue.

the trees heavy with wind
shrug and bend
that sky was not in the book either- night
is denied, color photographed and xeroxed over
and over and over until
it is just toner.

having so much
one needs to be grateful for those
things lacking.

32.
if it is
one note, then
it is…..our church.

inside this flesh lighthouse,
painted white with purified snow
our
refineries run at half mast.
deep inside the throbbing wish,
it may be leaking.
it just.

33.
threadbare
the hole ditched
the bags packed
rows of compromise
pick ax subtle suckle
light bulbs expose phillip guston style terror
shadows
unearthed
anchored
by choices

34.
the old
buried
stronger
alive…it is
again, found
desperate, not just waiting.
…..this long scan of treeline
has been rendered lost.

“there amongst the pain
worshiping at entrance,
inside forgiveness
outward – humiliation”

kissing each toe
this currency no longer urgent
standing still
this devotion is
about
us,
huddled.

35.
not even a
frayed angel-
after burning through all
the chakras and making
a self portrait with the
ashes, smash…
hammer forward the dig,
turbulent gravy laid waste
buried by action-
lousy service and the plates empty.
porcelain trophy
buried arms deep
in her
dump-truck.

36.
tease,
chain pulling.
the trees tackled the sky
until everything was sunk.
led to where the earth coughs
climbed in
and fell.
pattern discerned as repeating,
obvious isn’t it?
these culminations rivet the patchwork
cold. this cathedral of
acceptance
will be
just as empty
after the heat has moved
on.

37.
clouds as kites

the
wooden frame
that holds
the glass and offers us
ample opportunities
to see outside
is heavy
with
sun.
we
are
really never
supposed
to have as ownership-
connections.
the shadows,
never still, move on all the time-
whats left are the same rocks for support
the same branches
for hanging
other things besides the obvious metaphor
of
a
noose
is a swing
for
two.

38.
after
stuffing the curtains
in the luggage,
a trade
was made.
damn this canopy, its so shattered-
this parade of having revealed, and in its hand
was only a mirror,
not transcendence as built up spine bone after
anchor. could not
be
that
something, nor any less.
there are many butchered waves,
tracing the sign language
for fade.

39.
was, distracted

the poem
was,
see. going to be about
a, yes….very important, subject-
to change. there were multiple
buttons
to be
pressed, instead
lots of tiny buttons on her blouse were
arranged to have pale
bombs
of
blushing
lust exposed.
………………….they are cute, necks bent, but
they are not baby birds,
but horny
little
fuckin’
tugboats. Looking up her skirt,
got real
distracted.
there is always water somewhere
out there.

40.
inside her faith, above her two knees

headlights-
directionals from empty discourses.
arms bent towards a shrug- these
are really gestures of faith.
the aim, penetrate each others soil
with initiation.
could tell that the pattern was not made by nature-
its map not set by wind or tumbling days,
instead, carefully planned by men
with motives. woman, who
in
the
hazing process the fluid was leaked
from the shaft
left a stain on
the bathroom tile
to be read
like tea leaves
by horny dirty
ghosts.

41.
cello curves,
but would never cheat.
she had no
desire
to be consumed,
………………but maybe laid with bills.
never really anything but fish hooks snagged on rain,
we, of course
gravitate
towards the low
notes, use those as counterweight
for
our
failings.
there is drift in the gulf,
no speed nor entrance,
just submission to the
whore
of
clowns.
………….pensive,
we bank on survival and
it does not really
matter what flowers get laid,
i ain’t.

42.
we.
painted the signs
-after the rain
-after they had been torn down.
wires are no longer needed to pour words like straws
in
porn gape.
this past, all cunt hyper
shaking shouting in the present tense
have all popped-
worms covering their ears.
weather balloons
drag the stings behind to catch the cracks in the
erotic plumbing system. whatever.
these reruns, play like weeds with shrapnel.
scalpel, it ain’t precise, nor is it science, just a bag of fucking
leeches
thrown at the fan.
tea-bagged the drill-bit,
mined nothing
and got buried beneath vacant
twat singing in
overtones:

“the clouds over there
just at the point where the
sea is swallowed by the sky
have rained,
there is new growth
in the dessert,
the cactus have rotten from
the inside out,
that is the part
we like to
fuck
the best”

there is such a thing as
heat lightning-
dont need kindling
anymore.

43.
sun, quench

after strip mining
the shadows,
the sun, quench-
scorch and burn policy
to
hold
others
for examples of being so tired of history.
repeat the post digging over
and over
to get
over never
getting over this blur of a head full of ex’s,
remember lines 5, 6,7 and 8?
really,
whats the point of keeping everything
fenced in when none of
it
is
worth
shit
anyway?

44.
taking russia in the winter

somewhere
between Madison and Spring Green
fumbling with
paid calling card,
the sky shook the linen, and threw cotton.
the baked road steamed after the hard rain.
could not get through and should’ve listened
to the silence and let
it grow long enough to leave
the choice to be made out.
anxiety
is a decent
barometer
intimacy
a great phony.
airlines passing, so much more to departing.
there are those that wish, and make
it known
that they wish the strays were left
rotting back in orange land.
see, these reminders spread like
haggard burned to fuck glory.
was at the hymnal and her thighs
covered my ears as
the sinkhole opened,
too much shrapnel
in that
canary
who begged it
a
coalmine.
parachute plan to her new future.

45.
holding pattern

rug burn tantrum with erect posture-
the best things believed-
left unexposed. live in mystery,
it knows.
tracing the branches
the undercurrent
the new belief system. the shadows
effortless. blessed,
removed.
canopy of scratches, the new calligraphy-
remedies for apologies.
trenches, shovels, pick axes-
wrench it away,
fade all the way
fade into the idea
of
you failing.
fall.

46.
pageantry of
dressing wounds. the trade up
-options.
sticking around but the roots are mulch.
as much
lay bare, she is.
removed of need, her acceptance
never involved, fruit merchants of pulleys.
never quite what imagined,
it is stoic, with no bargaining, her gentle slope
of hips spills, the chain gang lines up harshly lit,
it is fantasy that keeps the chimneys clogged,
her moist surprise
engaged, teasing, these puppets
eat their
own
strings, stumble
rot
looking up.

47.
the hum
inside her pleasure source
beckons my throb
in her macadamia
flavored tunnel
to sing, its
vocal chords teased by the electric pulse
inside her safe
passage. to
be part
of her
so
full- a sexual blessing,
an entrance to heaven
as she shakes her drunken rump
at the dawn of overload.
grabbing her hips,
the vibrations
are little tidal waves,
coaxing my tin man
to aspire
to please her
deeply.
she is face deep in
the mattress, absorbed
elated heightened
as one more thrust
bursts
leaves her sore
thinking about
soon
more!

48.
scattered the
wires, charged! living
while burning, too please
is not an excuse but can be near
pleasant and worry. inhale
her sex, like a fan
on a hot
day, her pleasure
dew a sacrament.
the railroad tracks breath faster
trying to remember each spike,
each pasture, each pleasure.
tracing the outline
of her toes
in the
snow,
the wind blows whats left of the leaves
as she zips her coat,
her breasts majestic.

49.
trading in icicles

the beams
to the rafters, adrift
sea swallows, row
the entrance- bleed
weep spill the birds no longer seen, lifted.
in
the hierarchy, to deem
to deem
to deem
we smoke shadows and hide.
having thought sufficient,
unpacked the sacrifice and spilled
all over the chaos.

50.
allow as a cover for
sentiment.
could, of
course, be
something more (allow again)
but,
the refusal towers
and the iris giver is shut out,
made blank by pasts, greener expectations.
jackhammer the will
to the shell casings
spent shooting
at star
crossings. at
court the idea of love
was skirted around
tanked, but
when the skirt is lifted
love can be dolled out like probation favors- plush caskets.
pulling away from her, she
really does not want
a grain
elevator, and in a very
non poetic way,
it hurts.

(i saw her
once, when she decided that
effort was needed to keep the coals stoked
and for a moment
decided
the importance
was real. but, this desire
might be a faded photograph
of
an
empty
barn fire)

at some
point she might
choose, like choices
made to
bet on
reruns,
or
herself
allow.

51.
the perimeter is
hung with
hanging baskets, prickly.
severed, but still speaking
eyes following the cigarette smoke
as it joins the gnats as point of reference,
they would be secrets, but
have no value so
are traded in
currency, closed door
invitationals,
open to anyone
bloom
of anxiety into a blank
stare.

52.
having extracted
emotion, subjugated
the
desire
to draw water from cactus-
now the floodplain has purpose.
in those moments that
are enormous now-
this complicated rush of lubricated
naughty smears the daily towering boredom
into a present
isolated
fulfilled
temporary.
it is a sanctuary
of moments
that we climb into
to forget
that we no
longer
feel.

53.
on shopping
for fish hooks and
rear view mirrors, the fairy tales
were made from
refurbished charm
bracelets
siphoned
through
mirrors.
in refusing
to accept, strong arming
the inevitable.
the past can be held off
to become more
malleable.
this whole idea of possessing
are the words sewn into the
cough of
dolls. when the
point is made,
figuring the
paint is dry
on our
leaving.

54.
a shift

porcelain lines,
the landscape of the
bathroom
ends at her thighs,
peering up
her
eyes closed
she concentrates and releases-
playing catch, the tongue
traces the crumbs
down to
her
brown crown,
to be
lapped up with expressions
of gratitude.
the cleaning process
is finished on
the bed,
her ass rises like a prized flower
its fresh rain
savored in the fading light
of the
evening, empowered.

55.
patterns of ropes

storms and
carpeting the myth. trying
to match words
with currents, the
beginning alone is worth
the frost bite. driving, forming
the divide, writing
thank you letters to
the undertow, we
dispense
only to disperse
into ourselves
an
understanding of
the effects of
permanence.

56.
after the shear
when
last standing, the troops
went home, the duplicates
absorbed. the
solitary light
weakens. tried
but no trial could
summon
heat from that bright corner.
burned marble walls
her stoic response offers
only refuge under a skirt
chosen
like
performance. rolling
her hands canceled
in the turbulence, it speaks
like books
speak of sound, or at least
search after the
hammering of the found.

57.
the smallest landscape

nor fragile
not near forbidding,
acceptance is a glass
passage. tower of torn
-shipwreck.
her shoe heels dig
into the shoulder blades-
it takes a lot of concentration
to hike these walls.
reaching back to
spread the balloons into
an attic sky, the clouds
may have blushed as prayers
were suspended like mobiles,
the dam bridged and salmon
spilled over the banks
sloppy drunk bathed
in an aloe sheen, all
smiles with the face
of a dirty glazed
fountain, stuttering
but not interrupted,
with bags of
bombs, her
shipwreck
repaired, righted
squirting.

58.
great lakes

there were passages
and collections, an
overpass and new forms of endearing-
the leaning of
whispers, no
vacancy and acceptance of truths. in
the event of expectations
all the giving was buffed
to a dim radiance
and storm drained
to a ditch
of wildflowers. there has
been rain here, and the
trunks sway, her skin the
color of birch bark-
her ability to forgive
brought the wind to
it’s knees. for those
reasons alone
the windows are
kept closed.

59.
were there no
longer monuments we
might stitch the drippings.
fuel and ornaments, having absorbed
her without feeding
the past through screen doors, being
able to thrust – holding her ears not for silence
but for power, her tender vacancy
bags all
the kite strings
and takes away the
dull ominous ticking that
shuffles each
memory until it is
just the
next.

60.
upon dropping a rhyme

maybe it popped
or whimpered or
whatever.
let it
and let it did, but
it was anyway. there
maybe, could?
gentle, its grace
was all lilacs and
delicate like inchworm silk, advance
of sand. she had
a smile wide like high tide,
and the lights
skipped the ripples
drunk. dance
or march, immunity-
a lesser wound
could grin
nor brace the brunt to
win.

61.
trace
of licorice
and tree nuts-
the sun may
not shine there
but
worshiped
-all the same.
tip of tongue
circling the half moons
to the glorious
gap. inhaled
and suckled, her brown
sundial
needs deep forceful
french kisses
-the luscious result drips flower dew
goddess viscosity.
suck it she
implores, the naughty now
complies-
swirling, slurping,suckling.
as
the evening sun
gets wood,
drips,
and
later
penetrates.

62.
laws of diminishing returns

after trading the cumulus
for a field of rain barrels,
a soldering iron was
used to etch
calender days into
the walls of
home. the stairs still
are in the same place
as well as the
windows, door trim, basement stones and the
souls glued to this
particular patch of sunlight
across
nothing. could be different,
maybe a new shape
or slight, gave up in giving.
knowing best. easy.
disperse. towed under.
hanged. crawlspaces
feeding off of
pumpkin
flowers.

63.
structures of solitaire

after dismantling
the care giving,
the epic
and forgiving. reconstructing
shade, she
forgot interest and
lay siege to herself-
communicating
after the brush fires gave way.
and his absence
was a leaky reminder
that we are not vassals kept on shelves,
nor comfort lie waiting,
but
a disappearing act rising on
the
cusp
of freedom.

64.
little box for sleeping

these
arms weigh quiet,
whether in flight or
drifting. nor church
or collapsed brilliance, seasonal
heaving. splinter, having
fallen for her, drug.
chain pulling dirt.
wire.
jagged leaf springs,
stretched across a bed frame made of
red lights, this
drowsy church refers only
to drifting
for flight.
in anger her
life alive- her
refusal of real touch
a testament
to stiff-armed
intimacy, or the remnants
left by other manufacturers
of the
storm.

65.
frisky

attached
to the ceremonial bonding
were spirals and spigots and trenches-
sow, the tarnished earth fetches
respect
as it absorbs
dead. heat, acclimation
disembark.
my testimonial
is an assertive thrust, not
flashy enough for the directors
recollection. what is
this payment for, this
consummation, where every light bulb
is screwed on and
the firecrackers
all
pop.

66.
the power of arms

offering all
the colors, and the
near. heat
of snuggle is more
warmth of sincerity, there
is (maybe just a dream)
a breath that slows
between two hearts
until the mind has
fully rested.
no
alarm nor
quick
judgment can spill the sober blinds.
there is a poetry
in watching eyes move
under closed lids. women’s hips were
made
ergonomic for
holding close and
fading.
this bed yawns, not
having been balanced
with the counterweight
of together in
years.