The shoreline isn't what it used to be.
It's staggered now; the smoothness has regressed,
and aquamarine ice is stinging the water
like a knife. The room itself is warm,
though stifled with smoke and dust. We go out
in the night and inhale.
The cold smells nice. Where is the moon?
Where are the stars? All I see are city lights to the south,
and an unbreakable darkness in the east.
I miss the sound of moving water,
and I dream of summer.
But how I love these winternights, tucked beneath blankets
and snow. An interval to the dissonance
of a January that is too warm, too dry.
In the early dawn, the sky is periwinkle darkened,
and the waves crash me a song reminiscent of you.

I see her there, the lady you will make
a mother out of. Oh, look at her youth,
she is a child herself, a girl forsooth,
with comely features lust will one day take.
Oh sweet child, hear my voice and do not wake,
you'll say. Inside you slithers God's sharp tooth,
his precious boy who'll die for sin and truth:
And then you'll watch him burn upon a stake.
She stirs now, with demons clad in white
or angels in the frost. My darling girl,
I'll shield you of the things they'll do with this:
A robe of heaven's blue, to catch starlight
and frame your face; let loose your swarthy curl
and let me wake you with a sacred kiss.

read this later,
so I thought it something else. The only thing between us is laughter.
Your eyes are touchstones
and you leave to let me be, then come back and
we are like this.
Close and then months apart,
everything in between is irrelevant when we unite.
In the mirror I examine this person,
not left wondering until the evening ends.

come into me, like a snowflake on the pine
and I'll infuse my sappy kisses on your eyelids, love
and you'll become an emerald song in the wind

or crash into me like an icy wave in mid-November
and run your fingers between the spaces of rock on the breakwater,
chilling the birds.

Tumble into the fabric of my arms. Embroider your love into my skin.

These waters shimmer with memory;
watch as they glisten, flowing on the cusp of this age and the next.

Earthy, brown, depthless pools;
lacustrine, surging on the precipice of pearly shores,
enriching me as I look in

and see the tide's truest nature looking back at me.
Ancient and clandestine, too,
the place where youth and wisdom dwell

I step down to glean
the petals in the pond, that softly stir
when the muse plucks her instrument;
they have been blooming an eternity here,
in this cave. She has brought them up on this music,
and my tear fractures the ripples
when I hear the song;
I cry.

stand too close,
and bite me.
I will lead the way
through people, swarms and swarms of them,
hold tight
and take me to that view of ours:
we close our moments with the lake in mind.

leaves loosen from limbs
and the smell of apples sweetens the air

I follow you to the top, to the peak. You  laugh and I know
we are for each other in this life,

despite the weather, the path, the season.

The whole way in I thought about how courage is a ring,
and I found it on the hike

what does the utterer give to the prayer?

I love harshly,
in the thicket with sword
I will not yield,
I'll be your shoulder, your shield

the life breathing in will quell the dread of a burning day before you; for, in the mornings, the air is fresh and chilled,
and you may graze in the openness

until the flowers fulfill you,
awaken you.

Take your forest path, your field trail, the one you marked yourself
for these moments. And bring the dogs,
let their leashes be loose,
let your soul be freed here, in this scenery.

spring is hardly sure it loves the summer sun,
till the wind is warm and fruitful.

I am lost between
the senses infused; linger,
letting them last long

You were only a song I'd heard,
one that I had loved almost immediately.

Years and a thousand lakes between us, till we met again,
on the cusp of sorrow and memory,
my love.

I think I knew you once,
with eyes like the sea caught by a storm,
you left on the vow of this unbreaking love.

Come back to me, I begged into the hills, death having made us wed. I died that day, and every day after.

In the throws of a fateful wind, my dress blew scarlet threads; my dead heart was promised to a prince, and vacantly I walked, a ghost for you.

Come back to me, I begged into the hills.

In this life or the next, I will ride wildly on horses with you, my love. I became yours on the sword of your vow.

pliant clay creases in your hands,
collected in the special place just off shore, below the waves.

good for the skin, it bakes onto flesh too easily in this heat,
and then comes off just as nicely.

you could shape it into anything, maybe an offering to the gods or a formless clump,

but you make a duckling out of it. Now it's sitting on the sill, staring out at the freshwater sea you birthed it from;

not from foam or anything special,
just the supple clay in the lake,

the cool respite of it, the way it allows life to make it so.

starlight does not shine
on the shores of lake despair;
waters quell longing


. . .

death takes over us,
with a kiss to break this spell;
the longest lover.

Feet and toes dipped into throws of milky waves and morning haze

and pelicans on a tiny isle,
and houses staggered over cliffs

along the shore, and seagulls drift
and hours wane, our legs yearn

to stand, to stretch, and we are swift
beneath the day, I want to burn.

The pilgrimage, across the rocks,
along the shore,
they walk with solace.

Twilight stretches long limbs as they waltz in a line to the edge of the world,

gazing into the depths of the waters to see whatever it is they have come for.

Then the sun slips down and stars make a path for them back to that place of beginnings.

God or that breeze, spoke out and I could feel the caress on my young face. An intimacy only longing could tell you.

Walking in the evening shade,
a figure there, it has not strayed
far from the path. It does depend
on shadows, lurking, it can blend

but sunlight enters through the trees,
reveals the cat, a stealthy breeze
that saunters over, brushes against
our legs, and now we have a little friend.

She sits on the stairs, stalks in the grass,
guards the street and greets those who pass;
a friendly thing, but we say goodbye,
until next we pass the creature by.

rain falls, sinks into my skin slowly,
pacing down the path with you on the other line.

we talk for too long, but it flows a little seamlessly,
like a new bend in a stream

and we end on a fine note,
a prelude for the next conversation.

flushed with emotion, and choking on the truth.

could say a thousand things, talk into a corner.

to be clear,
I love you. That is all.

a lover's soft kiss
beneath this strawberry moon:
spring into summer

we come from dust and star and sky,
admire the place from which we came;
on hills and rooves and grass we lie
to taste the thing we have became.

-- how selfish and fickle we are,
how cruel and kind and strange;
like suns that burn too fast, us stars
so bright, and then, so plain.

eons pass and still we lie,
transfixed by that beloved sky,
and people live, love, quickly die
in a sweet but single breath of time.

kindred blue forget me nots
that knot across the glen,
and tie around the willow's hands,
reminding it of when

the wind would sweep across,
make a dancing sea of gold
in the ditch along the path:
the bright marsh marigold.

on a northern shore, the air bites, even in june;

once, it was warm, but that is just a wish now. crouched in a chair,

I feel small raindrops brush over the pages of my book,

shaking as my stiff fingers flip through it on this slow day. This is the port where

the rich americans flock on their cruise, gold chained and wrapped in lovely fur coats,

while the people down here wear their thin uniforms and wake before dawn.

sitting as the scissors trim, hair falling to the floor all dark and wet,

I watch her twirl fragments into sections, watch the sharp, quick movements,

and I gaze, haphazardly, at the girl in the mirror

who sits within herself, makes faces when the brush pulls too hard, smiles slightly when our eyes meet,

and that is when I stop watching the hairdresser but her face instead,

that girl, my sister,

so beautiful and sweet.

the pelicans swoop
in a sea of cloudless blue,
tethered to the sky.

the wind is a song
that bends those velvet petals
for the lips of bees

a bouquet would consist of the flowers you love,

so I will tumble into the ditch, where all the marsh marigolds bloom for you.

does a voice ruin the wind?

I worry about the words I will say, forgetting that silence is charged with meaning,
and is easy to share with you.

in the rain I feel restored

you say,
walk out to the view with me before we go,

and I forget the drone of cities and am looking at it, with you

Under the sun we are beautiful beings.
I want to spend my moments in this light with you

I want to write a song for you but you are the strummer,
the player,
the gentle wrist flicking up and down,
the echo in the cavity,
the vibration of the strings
and the voice that sings.

there is a quality subtler than kindness,
though they are connected.
quieter, lovelier, beautiful to notice and reciprocate
if you can see it in those eyes,
that smile, the look across the room

barely platonic, but some kind of love without tension,
a frequency that hums in beholders if you listen and reply
in your own way.

I admire this quality and the people it belongs to;
I only ever see them in passing, mostly,
and in fleeting moments I am enveloped by the warmth, the belonging, this lasting tryst of hearts that stay connected

I look at you and see what will not be;
I have been waiting an eternity.
The hope has never dwindled, but has grown,
A longing, no, an ache I've never known.

I look at you and see what will not be;
Yet, somehow you're still captive over me.
The shore with ceaseless waves to reminisce,
meanwhile beneath the moon's so distant kiss.

I look at you and see what will not be;
I cannot help myself, so I give in,
allow the cold salvation of your skin,
if only to prolong eternity.

another sun to burn a fire in me,
to shake the frozen lake down to its core
she's young but once she was an ancient tree,

she's not a flower anymore.

where do they dwell,
deserters from mountain peaks,
the depths,
the deep hell, it can reach
but touch them no longer.

Swoop, soar, angels or spirits
floating between worlds,
white bodies and black fingers,
calling the freedom of flight their home.

sleep deprived,
succumbing to the dreams
you gave, I shifted
once became one thousand, then I fell
into wakefulness

tripping again,
I taste the subtle sands the desert blows
and understand the visions
you impose
without a threat, I know.

But all I want is a soft and dreamless sleep,
oh please,
dear oneiros

exhausted, I bend to kiss
the burning dark,
I find your lips
blinded by this cold eclipse.

the winter's first love was spring,
but they lost each other in the fires of July.

after some time,
they became friends

forever

across from me
she is playing the guitar
and I love her

hands curl so tightly,
I can see the strain in your back as you pull yourself up
to the next hold.

silence falls across the hollow space
as we watch you in awe.
your hands rain white dust on our faces.

you turn sideways, press against the wall, dyno up and across,
and then you reach the top.

the snow is a siphon

are you pulling me in
or am I pulling you toward me?

are you pushing me out
or am I pushing you away?

it blows into the windshield so we pull to this side,
let the transport pass us by,
hazards flashing in the dark.

silence hangs between us like the edge,
so feebly teetering between tears and peace
I want to spill my guts out to you,
but I am worried it will distance us.

my dear.

I heard you in the shallow waves
whispering to me.

I do not speak the language
of the ever changing sea.

I wade into the waters,
now they sift so steadily

looking for the anchor or
the other half of me.

what is existence?
the mountain's life in mine is so very slow,
but even it sees the same, unending horizon as I do.

gently, I devour
the music that you play

the strumming and the sway,
the things you can convey

subtle, but the power
of the songs, the silent way

you make the unsaid there
and it becomes

real, authentic, ours.