it is morning and
love hides in the bed
linen where
still-sleepy arms
and legs start to awake.

the scent of rose
on the pillow,
the scent of love
blossoming with
a kiss beneath the sheets,
honey limbs
roused in the sunshine.

late november and
the leaves fall,
spiralling to the
floor, browns and
golds, sinking,
earth bound
in the crisp morning
air.


sunshine
pouring through
the window,
a thin sun
stretches out,
the grey-eyed winter
waits like our
kisses, sweet as
cherry, sweet as our
yearning lips.

We are elaborate animals made of wood
earth, flowing like water into the veins
of the sky.

The sun being a fist of lava, and the night
being an enticing molar—we are
a succession of tides, being swallowed
by successions of day; and how beautifully
we wilt in the presence of joy.

The moon may be nothing
but a luminous
stone

and to eat the poetry of it
is how one chokes
on love

but the romance of morning
is that if by midnight
you are alive, that is joy.

Life lightly drifting like seeds
of a dandelion on the slightest breeze
up and away beyond
the day to day  bounds
over fences to a grass greener
over a tall pine
in the distance
to light down someday real
in an arm of nature a face
of sun
a light so brilliant a future
of limitless creations
happiness
a smile of a cradle of
green hill
over the horizon once
now real
so flesh and blood
and I treasure
I see
I saw I know
this is where
I choose
to make my home

i admire the way you purge
putting your face on,
your night shirt,
and then your love

you unwind time
like poetry
leaving traces of your
idiosyncrasies from
all the seasons
inside the seams
of your pillows
and ever
changing faces

you: like Amos Lee and your salty jokes
during the summer months
like exchanging faces beneath the linen
like your ceiling fan turned on to
blow the air
or the love away