I deal
with the Jerusalem jeers
brambles and boot heels upon the chest
because I choose to be
inside the sardine can nest
practice altars and fears

I choose toy guns
rather than the illusions
of ice-sculptures and invalid-love
or winded wishes' ruse
wasted weddings' bruise

I choose (by God's whistling whim
and peanut gallery)
The art
the crooked
the crime
because it crickets inside
where the sigh and cry begins
where the biohazard happiness ends

Because I choose
this cypress curse
my quiet drums
my moving museums
for steady love's
rapture roulette
you can bet

I choose whom
and why, how, and when
just because I can.
I deal
because self pity
serves an empty meal.

Each night is
precisely set
like a  gem
within  a dream.
Immersing in
the fluid grandeur
of darkness,
the night
swings  around it,
when one
looks back---
the day has
already become
a past dream
in an irretrievable realm.
The excesses
darkness commit
in a frenzy
in the night's geography.
excites me.without an end.
And what the moon
does to annul the
handiwork of darkness too
fascinate me.
Night is the story
of contrary crafts
calibrated to perfectly fit.

Rain died on the cobble stones.
A warm soul escaping as scented steam,
rising to the fading heavens
of a long Paris eve.

Muted velvet shadows deepen and
soften the edges of everything.
Lovers kisses, whispers and laughter
mingle.

Half drunk
and one more bottle of wine.

Eyes dance and share their dreams.
Across a private table hands meet.
Making love like secret poems of the deaf.

Subtle exchanges of body movement
compliment the symphony
of this tiny world magic.

Breaking bread from a wicker basket.
Full on night descends,
closing its curtain on the day.

Internal prayers to heaven
chase each other,
They wish this night would never end.

Dark red stains on pure linen.
Count the glasses.
Time elapses,
but it's never getting late.

Roosty

.
In gravest, gravels of untouched soil,
Spearhead of purple, beyond the pale,
One statue of siege upon a windy foil,
What mires meek airs in all you survey?

Like a frost of summers, you are lord,
To hold that seed in your spiny face,
Depressions of land your promontory,
All up with arms, iron clad as a mace,

Beneath you, the grown motley fields
Are desolate, all flowers bled, blender,
Spiders and birds know you unyielding
The lost aleatory scent of no surrender.