MARIA, LAY YOUR HANDS ON ME
PROTECT FROM THE WOLF THAT WANTS YOUR LOVE
WANTS ME TO BE HIS SWAN,
                                   HIS LILY
WANTS ME TO EAT HIM

BLUE OVER, SOMETIMES YELLOW
WHITE FLOODS
MONEY PROBLEMS HURT AND LEAVE WITHOUT
                                                                ­            WORDS
                                               ­                             WITHOUT
                                                                ­            WISHES
                                              ­                              WITHOUT SALT

HE WHO TOUCHES THE BACK OF MY NECK
AKNOWLEDGES MY WOMAN-ITY
HE OBSERVES NIGHTLY WINDOWSHOPS THINKING THINGS HE COULD BRING FOR MY GLORY
HE MEANS WELL
HE WANTS TO

WE KNOW THAT PAROLE SHARES WITHOUT ANY WORDS
I WAIT FOR THE BOY WHEN THE MAN COMES
STANDS AND STARES BY THE TREE THAT I SIT'N'SING ON
HE HOLDS COLD, HE SHOT WOLF -- NOW IT'S HIS TURN

MARIA, WHO WAS YOUR JESUS?
HOW WELL CAN TWO LOVERS HOLD WITHOUT EACH OTHER FOR YEARS ON?

Enstill code language
Enstill love memory
Enstill denim ***** with cherry beer
Enstill a green leaf - given, permitted and held in back pocket
as a reminding symbol of things
Enstill stillness of feel - I still, yes, I am still
Make sure, satisfied with yourself and the evening leave

Or don't
[stay here]
[i permit you leave]
[excuse the lovingly knowing look of me]

afternoon tea at 4pm posh

first prize.    three x five



all persons: third person

1.

the restaurant

three minus five or six



2. the tea

three minus five or six



waiter

3. describing the folk next to me

4. too many expectations, the room offering anxieties

5. food came



6. how high can this be, a ceiling at ten feet four



#speechless

red cross



a simple sign that says kindness helps



and needs volunteers



so i do one day a week alone upstairs

if possible



the power of such a thing is endless



as i sift and sort the black bags and

cardboard box i think of you



a leather bag with purse: pink plastic comb

still grubby with your hair intact.

lace handkerchiefs, letters i leave unread.



dead people’s handbags, dead folks

clothes. mothballs they say are hard

to come by, i know different, smell them now.



washing hands is regular. compulsive.



odours cling. thoughts sing that kindness

comes easy.



sounds, chatter from the store below rise and when  thoughts subside

i listen here and there, customers clients and staff.



the box contains your little things, the company of pretty

your joy of small items



dust coats the air, motes of your living days. a drink is

welcome. move on.



another bag is baby clothes, joyful thoughts of children growing.



showing them to colleagues we smile together, steaming in

the upper room



warm the days now, summer the nights are hotter. murmuring continues below.



you hear things if you listen.



she said

we should help    people in this country

first, not those abroad .

****** immigrants



yet these are the numbers the scared and dying

the





established volunteer talking loudly  to her young customer

asking about the washing,

  yes i

hang it in the garden, in    sun and breeze

to dry fresh.



staff  replied that is what peasants do.

gippos, you know their sort.



i stopped the sorting.

saddened

report it

fight, flight or write of it?



i touched a little coat gently

said goodbye to that upper room left quietly

it is hard to do nothing, not react



my issue



their sign says kindness helps

red cross

a red cross

I only loved you
when it was
Convenient
I'm really sorry
that I  didn't think
of you
( When it really mattered.)
What's the matter with my
soul? It isn't correct
but nothing feels wrong.

I feel something , I don't know
if it's "sorry".

Looking into the void.
I think I seen you.

Reached out.
We met again.

For the first time.

It was love


Possibly maybe.

holding on to right now.


Frozen. your face perfection.

Eyes closed.

Waiting so anxiously for you
to open them.

You don't.
   My heart arrested by your beauty.
   Shatters when you chose not
   to look at me.



I don't feel any signs of growing.

Clownlike, happiest on your hands,
Feet to the stars, and moon-skulled,
Gilled like a fish. A common-sense
Thumbs-down on the dodo's mode.
Wrapped up in yourself like a spool,
Trawling your dark, as owls do.
Mute as a turnip from the Fourth
Of July to All Fools' Day,
O high-riser, my little loaf.

Vague as fog and looked for like mail.
Farther off than Australia.
Bent-backed Atlas, our traveled prawn.
Snug as a bud and at home
Like a sprat in a pickle jug.
A creel of eels, all ripples.
Jumpy as a Mexican bean.
Right, like a well-done sum.
A clean slate, with your own face on.

Overnight, very
Whitely, discreetly,
Very quietly

Our toes, our noses
Take hold on the loam,
Acquire the air.

Nobody sees us,
Stops us, betrays us;
The small grains make room.

Soft fists insist on
Heaving the needles,
The leafy bedding,

Even the paving.
Our hammers, our rams,
Earless and eyeless,

Perfectly voiceless,
Widen the crannies,
Shoulder through holes. We

Diet on water,
On crumbs of shadow,
Bland-mannered, asking

Little or nothing.
So many of us!
So many of us!

We are shelves, we are
Tables, we are meek,
We are edible,

Nudgers and shovers
In spite of ourselves.
Our kind multiplies:

We shall by morning
Inherit the earth.
Our foot's in the door.

To a pink
The time of the tiger
Comes flying.