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

PK Wakefield
PK Wakefield
Dec 24, 2015

My Dear who's come through winter
Growing with soft roughness
How you have become my kiss,

The pressing of my heart within
my breast,
And the pushing of my breath.

Oh Dear your hands are small
And move into my hands
With smallness, their pale beauty.

Dear, in Winter, who is dying,
You are life made skin and health;
Your lips are always playing
With softness as their wealth.

PK Wakefield
PK Wakefield
Dec 22, 2015

keep these hands alive in your hands; that they walk and breathe; that their skin becomes downy in the spring, and from them spears love-roots of dark grass, filling over the hills and meeting with the excellent night their shining bodies.

live, love and smell the rich perfume of your lovers hips; meet and again touch with them your cheeks, and delight in them–the coil of their heap.

they are with your body, and to touch another's is a great privilege–and i know it.

wander and know the nape of them; laugh and extend your blood into their own.

invite their inspirations into your own breast, and make with it one respiration.

they are cool and wonderful between the ears; they are soft laughter and stupid giggling; they are the arcuate sleep of a rose thorn–deeply within your skin.

know and love them.

hold not back your laughter, nor praise, nor joy in their clutch.

touch, ramble, delight in the visceral perfusion of their mouth and kiss.

PK Wakefield
PK Wakefield
Dec 22, 2015


and again
i am here


of somewhere

alive         –


e    a
m i n


PK Wakefield
PK Wakefield
Dec 19, 2015

my mind again returns to these thoughts of mouth:
the parting of seaways; the excellent bridge
of its voice; the smothering intonation of
its warm and bossom cloister.

i remember it in the new morning; naked and shifting of limbs.
it kissed down the back and tasted
between its thighs of sighing and saltsea–cheek and blushing.

i remember and i move:
the winsome drove of its dull dream
catch and habituate me. i am alone in its fingers; and even from which other kisses cannot wake.

occasionally there is laughter–i can hear–from way off.

there is the curving tremble of its arc.

PK Wakefield
PK Wakefield
Dec 19, 2015

mirror me
this softly

where two and
three girlthings

the soul of boy
wars         rings;

hair in shortly
which some
sex wears

her mouth without
lipstick saying,

"kiss me–

       (i am soft)"

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