Margo gobs a peach with all the fuzz, fleece of Jupiter but sweet-
Like a tree is sweet for waiting so slowly they suddenly bare fruit.
She thinks about her pillow full of Sleep and Pity
melting into a queen-sized oblivion, marking Time with dim Arrows.
She feeds the wrong wolf now and then.
But she prospers where her sparrows depart from this World
And never Comes Back, so much as Return
To Turning.

Provident the essential beauty of a long sip of her in the moonlight
Drink I did and fell head over heels
In elemental drunken eye splendor

a singular curio on
a length of pearls
on a strand of hair
in a pond of
gone.

life is like something
that you can’t place
because Here
is Full.

And There...
has moved
On.

it’s early morn and the air is barrel-shaped
with burgeoning twilight wane
and the shuffle of chickadees in the snow;
while gathering wood for the fire -
I’m surrounded by porcelain shadows
crunching underfoot like packing peanuts
made by Trappist Monks.

like a margarine heart of a Georgia peach
the sun bogs at the bottom of the sky and i boggle
at the merriment of surrender,,, as the hours retire
to their night clocks and mice pitch sit-coms
in cornfields -
while you sleep
through spectacular
epiphanies
that a heartache
can hardly
pretend.

Death is like you,
silent, cold, and
doesn’t love me back

If you are death
then I long to be dead

Love me
with music of the sea
screaming seagules
push ships swimming
lazily  
enjoy me
in Bach's crazy rhythm
with fluttering waves
come
in my immutability