There are edges lined

with fingers more soluble

than salt--they feel for

preservation.

The equal agency

of nature, shaped indelibly

to the touch.

You figure into surfaces

that only exist because of

their depths.

The ratios of chills register.

There's a straight line

through any word that

tries you...stern with

final revision.

The improvisational

trail of what you leave

behind.

Voided words better than

a blank page, a

silenced voice made

visible.

~Wisdom long in the tooth,

self-extracting~

Protectress...manna, Luna, vulvic-veil,

my heinous highness, take this kiss upon

your forehead and crown.

Tinctured lips, paired pilgrims of our alchemy...

surmounted mount in tantric trust, the perfect

fit for this Age.

We watched each other's will hatch in the palms

of our hands...forgetting to argue who came first.

The rightful bliss of essential ignorance, world

manifest under our noses--roused by smelling salts

from intermittent faints...Love, Love, Love!

You, dearest of whomsoever came forth from innumerable

bodies, to be half-turn to my half-turn...round our world

on its head.

Bar to bar none axes...one string guitars from pole to pole--

played ****** by our fingers.

Corollas of red droplets...the poppies are everywhere, the

child you bore me was me--forcing me to man abandonment.

Caught at the lip of a curb ramp, I hurl handfuls of folly

skyward...as pieces of absence continually settle time.

I apply you to my proportion...Vitruvian Man versed in

your space, circle squared dear--circle squared...the poppies

are everywhere.

Broken down to simplest things, I lay you down, I lay me

down...try both sides of the bed where neither is met.

Just as I cease to exist, I-ness nets a sense of being, bolting

upright as if hearing the world fall.

We who observed continuous excellency of soul, stood

juxtaposed in extemporaneous awe.

How could I expel you, how could you expel me...from

such a juxtaposition?

The "invisible worm" brings tidings of forever before it

destroys the flower...the poppies are everywhere.

Street sampling word, pierced on its side...

work zone cones the wickedest witch

cruel-worlds under.

Cab meters left running,

ante upping ante.

Wheatpaste wars boom-blocking,

moonlighting black

gum splotches under years of feet.


Millions of ways of home, trample-trials in this

stink-thick Dutch settlement.

Where faint of hearts get blown in handkerchiefs,

and the court jester plays his head in the face of the fallen.

Where plastic bags fill trees, like women with hair rollers

screaming at children to come inside before nightfall.

Creamy pale yellow moths,

translucently glom the buttery

mists of sunlight's skin, hers.

Naked with vision, redefining

outlines of afterglows...prickling grids,

as if she could shed the body.

Waiting for death

akimbo, prattling to

imaginal friends about

being weaned off the milk

of paradise, lactating domes

as far as the eye can see.

Starving at the chain for the

for the affection of freedom,

we smother one another with

assurances we've chosen wisely.