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beautiful to the sun
Beautiful to the moon
Beautiful to the grass
Beautiful to the dirt
Beautiful to the ash
Beautiful to the fire
Beautiful to the water
Beautiful to the desire
Beautiful to the slaughter
Beautiful to the life
Beautiful to the strife
Beautiful to the breath
Beautiful to the death
I sit in the centre
Of the seed
Unafraid to fall

Damp soil welcoming
Bold to open and
March up to sky

Sun
Light
Rain
Warm
New
Growth
Alive alive O
At last
At last
At...
These pancakes don't taste like they did,
When Mr. Edwards brought her here.
The waitress pours more coffee, says She'll ask the chef but doesn't think
He's changed the recipe in years.
I'll take 'em back, Ms Edwards.  Try
A different breakfast, if you like.
No thanks, she says, don't take 'em back.

Two years now.  Even coffee's not
The same as then, tastes weaker like
It's watered down, no better than
The instant kind she makes at home.
She eyes her phone--no messages--
And nowhere else she wants to go.
I remember
sometimes

her voice would quiver

like paper lanterns
dancing in some
foreign nighttime glow

I fancy
sometimes

I knew that sweet tremble

at a tea ceremony table
beneath Chinese skies
many years before

it first caressed my ear
I've been through Webster's book and none of this
Is good enough to understand your love,
Which held me close against the wide abyss--
Not cast below or rising up above,
Mortality the cost of tasting bliss,
Eternal mourning of a peace-blue dove.
Your touch is more than I and I deserve;
Your soul is where the goddess finds her nerve.
What isn't here, not in these lines,
You have the right to see, and more
Than that, discover, touch
As it blooms.
Poem.
The American dream had wheels,
Wheelwrights heating rims to fit
Linseeded spokes,
Conestogas, prairie schooners,
Bicycles and trains,
Fords and Maseratis, Harley Earle Impalas,
Coal trucks, semis, interstates
That separate the morning.
By nature, I’m tactual.
Hands on touchy.
I love the feel of silk on skin.
The softness of fur.
The coolness of glass.
When I come across objects of desire
I’m compelled to touch.
To run my hands over them.
Experience their texture.
Feel their warmth.
For me touching is understanding.
If you are my object of desire,
I will touch you,
It’s my nature.
I’m not a runner.
If your worthy of my love,
Your worth the fight.
And I will fight for you
till the end of time.
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