this thing is very pretty.
it does not say much,
its cheeks are pale over
and beneath blossomed with crimson.

it has 2 light eyes
of greeness which
move softly over the nose
and lips–2 florid strips of pinking.

its hair is spun of evening sunlight,
red hushed and riven with ray.

this thing is rare
and beautiful
and lovely beyond lovely.

this thing is a girl,
she says
her name.

her eyes move softly,
and her cheeks shine as blood with snow.

few things have ever been so perfect,
few things have ever been so girl.

.







































                                "A
          lot of the time I feel like I'm
               in love with someone
                    I've never met
                                  .
                                  "











































.

i believe in a story

               (it is my love)

the passing of my hands through light,
the coming of slight graces,
the bended stocks of mute flowers.

my love
you are without skin,
your eyes do not see,
your lips do not kiss.

my love
i love you–

         (and where

are you?

my love you
are the whole neatness
wishing within me

to feel the slight pressing
of heat beneath your skin;

the pulsed flexing of your vein
and hem. my love you are

the small darkness
and tiny quiet of my
heart to fill you kissing;

the crimped weakness of your knees,
the playing of your eyes after nightfall,
the winking fleetness of your cheeks.)

And, my love
are you

  where ?

(i can feel you)

even with space
between breathing
and heat between us;     my love

i can feel your someday lips
within my lips the
waxing of your palm
within my palm.

my love
(and i have always loved you)
will believe
in the story

of your hands and lips:

the passing of my hands through light,
the coming of slight graces,
the bended stocks of mute flowers.

.








































"I'm sorry."

I love you.

(I'm sorry.)

"Goodbye."











































.

(there is always this moment)


quietly . littlely

    soft within

bed and thinking
of lips eyes hair
breathing
still and strenuously

pressed beneath breast         .


the heart feels
and pushes against
rib and spine;

(a fan plays
        /
the cat eats)

and lingers little sleep,
for thought is always
and always of thoughts

there is something
somewhere
difficultly serene

improbable to touch
yet touches with
exacting grace;

My dear:

       My love
           of nothing
                Little which


you are
not real
your hand is a vapor

of tense reeling to tingle
under skin which rushes
with clovered spice
of splintered health.

(my love i have always loved you
that you are not something real;

being inside
too long to taste
or see,

there is the
dumb something
naked which

laughter and youth
have forgotten;

(the move music
and art sound;

the color and splay
of vibrant self)

being where


              (some     where)


inside too much
without feeling
or smelling

has just to want
and taste something seems:

of flower,
,hips
grass,
,and petal.

this lily new,
bright with white petals :

seems to sink
seems to speak,

bobbing and
whitely with petal

the wind over its
hair; the sound and

      (sometimes)

of its hollow full
of pistil and rind .