If my Valentine you won't be,
I'll hang myself on your Christmas tree.

A free bird leaps on the back
Of the wind and floats downstream
Till the current ends and dips his wing
In the orange suns rays
And dares to claim the sky.

But a BIRD that stalks down his narrow cage
Can seldom see through his bars of rage
His wings are clipped and his feet are tied
So he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings with a fearful trill
Of things unknown but longed for still
And his tune is heard on the distant hill for
The caged bird sings of freedom.

The free bird thinks of another breeze
And the trade winds soft through
The sighing trees
And the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright
Lawn and he names the sky his own.

But a caged BIRD stands on the grave of dreams
His shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
His wings are clipped and his feet are tied
So he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings with
A fearful trill of things unknown
But longed for still and his
Tune is heard on the distant hill
For the caged bird sings of freedom.

my naked lady framed
in twilight is an accident

whose niceness betters easily the intent
of genius—
                        painting wholly feels ashamed
before this music,and poetry cannot
go near because perfectly fearful.

meanwhile these speak her wonderful
But i(having in my arms caught

the picture)hurry it slowly

to my mouth,taste the accurate demure
ferocious
              rhythm of
                            precise
laziness.  Eat the price

of an imaginable gesture

exact warm unholy

i will wade out
                        till my thighs are steeped in burning flowers
I will take the sun in my mouth
and leap into the ripe air
                                       Alive
                                                 with closed eyes
to dash against darkness
                                       in the sleeping curves of my body
Shall enter fingers of smooth mastery
with chasteness of sea-girls
                                            Will i complete the mystery
                                            of my flesh
I will rise
               After a thousand years
lipping
flowers
             And set my teeth in the silver of the moon

i like
to think that on
the flower you gave me when we
loved

          the far-
departed mouth sweetly-saluted
lingers.
            if one marvel

seeing the hunger of my
lips for a dead thing,
i shall instruct
him silently with becoming

steps to seek
your face     and i
entreat,by certain foolish perfect
hours

         dead too,
if that he come receive
him as your lover sumptuously
being

kind
because i trust him to
your grace,and for
in his own land

he is called death.

consider O
woman this
my body.
for it has

lain
with empty arms
upon the giddy hills
to dream of you,

approve these
firm unsated
eyes
which have beheld

night’s speechless carnival
the painting
of the dark
with meteors

streaming from playful
immortal hands
the bursting
of the wafted stars

(in time to come you shall
remember of this night amazing
ecstasies     slowly,
in the glutted

heart fleet
flowerterrible
memories
shall

rise,slowly
return upon the
                  red elected lips

scaleless visions)

once, you stood tall and bold
against the sky
and said, in all simplicity,
that we are forever stuck
misunderstanding the threads
that run through our lives.
i feverishly agreed, and
already could not make out
sand or sky, and
knew that i was no exemption,
but never to be
cursed or normal, either.

and the sky opened up,
and, steady we,
as we'd prayed for rain,
whispered of continental drift
and the draperies of unseen
seasons. but nobody knew or
knows, and aperture of eyelid
makes no difference. evidence
in broken glass, run smooth
again, that pain can turn out
pretty.

so, we outstood clashes & contrast
patterns in earlier lights, twenty-
twenty ways to unlearn the wrongs
burnt between our sinews. and i did
believe. and i did believe. but time
barrels back and forth, and belief
structures erode out, for better or
for worse, from under
our feet.

stone's throw.
lone crow, bent,
perched, on the back fence.
sometimes, i feel the warm
bent of misery,
washing, ocean's
leagues, untied, into
graceful plays, like
the hue shift of afternoons.
under clouds, feet shuffle
over n around n don't find
meaning out there in gutters
or supermarkets. it
is heavy but bearable.
                                                                                                           arcing over,
                                                                                            sky's cover, oblique,
                                                                                     hangs on the valleymist.
                                                                                 some days, feeling the soft
                                                                                                       hiss of static, i
                                                                                                          smile, out of
                                                                                            habit, or leaflitter, or
                                                                                               every vastness, like
                                                                          our echoes through space seem.
                                                                                     under canopy, feet rustle
                                                                              about, all muddied n finding
                                                       meaning don't matter, out here in hollows
                                                                                                     or grainfields. it
                                                                                       is dizzying yet bearable.