this rough sometimes of a star
within the grit of wind
moves all scepters to still

the stirring of their grip to seize

and make loose their hands.

(that they might hold
the cupping of that final flint

where from which a spark shall new
and in colors bright, a morning do.)

giving up of cent;
and bills no more their fists to clench.

(my dear there is world within this kiss;
this breath and dew.

i live; shall feel;
have of body been and went
into fields alive with colors bent.)

make this thy cheek to speak:
this single promise of the earth to break

beneath the tread of stars,
where grass and flower coo–

and with the rain
a tiny song of evening make,
       ­                                           ,
                    ­                              ,
                                 ­                 ,
                                              ­    ,
       ­                                           .

That I was alive: I suppose,

there was a certain eager meaning to
these moments–wide and short–these
hours–fat and narrow–these years
long and deep–

the stars, the lunging of my breast, the
turned curving of a sunrise, the rapid
expulsion of blood, tunneling suddenly through artery and vein;
I guess.

Looking and wondering; I turn my
hand over in a spent beam of sunlight. Its span tumbling with that heavy glow–it iridesces.

(I love you.

Knowing I will die–I love you.)

I am walking in some hall. There is the fast purring of a cat. Easily my breath inhumes and exhumes the space within my chest. Heart beating. Air and flesh exchange.

How easily it is to be–it seems these
hands are mine over your breasts. I put
my fingers in your mouth. Your tongue
tousles their fiber. I make and unmake
myself in your hips.

The thick leaning of this chair into my back–where are you?

(Reading this perhaps.

And am I alive? And where?

Or dead?

Could be.)

And what is death?

Dying after all, it is, I guess, what I am.

There was the forest today. And five minutes ago I kissed you.

I am incomplete–I can feel
the way this shirt turns over the skin of
my arm. Somebody is speaking French on the radio.

"I will be dead someday." I want to whisper.

(I will be dead someday.

I love you.)

there is, after all,
one thing
(after my breath)

–a star–

hung loose
and into the night
(which is my soul)

dreaming through
moist lips
and the cup of flower

a kissing of pale light;
the rough newness of rain;
and the smell softly afterward.

each pairing


comes over words
lips over
sounds of
throats young.

hubble bubble
below the window sill:

                        summer; and; whores

(being just flesh)

pulls a little something softly
of smile over sleep;

tangles a breath
in noon light–

                                                                                           wh isp e r i  n    g



a hanging finger
of loose

twixt lips:

    (spearing silence)

tugs into arms
a trembling rough


                                                     s   i      n       g     i           n     g






who becomes our bodies
after our flesh splits ways
with life and makes with
root worm and sun glass
the several blades of grass ?

(i'm making and again wonder
evenly obscene
in the sunlight over my arms
brushed with noon beams
and shadows tightly beneath
my feet;

i think,
and splay over the mind
of children's voices
hurryingly hunched
and bruising the silence
slightly with slim slivers
of giggling–

(there's a boat waiting for me)(

i have to go))(

goodbye  )   )    )

this coming mouth over softly of sunlight

is subtle stuff and warmly arrives

through cheek as pink as rose

nude laughing, the

fooling of fingers in dark hair,

the rich surprise of lips
in a dark room
pinkly aware with morning–

grunts rolling over into
my arms and i

kiss its neck

(this small naked

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