Peering through a wasp's wing
at shadows on the wall
Hear the whispered whimper
echo down the hall
Glass thump of bone and feathers
against the bedroom window
Motes of darkness floating
to air a moldy winnow
Creak of standing knees
rise in opioid haze
To wander past the shadows
and sniff of death's bouquets.

r ~ 6/11/14

"Ïn love with the moons"
in to her ear, his inebriated
soft murmur pours,

"Don't tell me that"
she playfully taunts,
"So wicked you are,
moon, one or the other
feels the pinch a bit too much"*

Her disagreement,was meant
to be just the opposite,
the logic of which is clear, only
to lovers, in intimate moments.

Every touch is so orchestrated
to create a provocative effect,
as if there is a secret pact between
the moon and the gentle flow
caressing the mossy river bed, the tide
that  comes in with full force,
and flows out spreading peace.

They both stand under the spell,
full, milky moon and wildly dance,
till the effect of moon induced amour
completely, conclusively subdues.