I run to you
your rhythm, your beat

for a moment they're mine
and we breathe together,
breathe

I run to you
your hunger, your need

for a moment they're mine
and we cleave together,
cleave

I run to you
your sweet-wet, your greed

for a moment they're mine
and we feed together,
feed

We didn't quite think it through,
did we now?

We just pushed that harrow
even when the fields were underwater.

Now the wires bring us
the yes-no grammar of old love.

Lewd sun, cloud-tumble,
violets dying in the loam:

images lashed to the lens,
the loom, the wine-weave

of the eye... well,
we held on for a while.

someone once said that if you love something,
you should set it free.
as if this is something done so easily.


they could have explained a little about
the tide of chilly, bittersweet memories
that greet me every morning
making my socks wet all day

Your hair is rich and dark,
but it's a mess, a bird's nest,
maybe a bit oily.
But as you boldly affirm,
you don't need tidiness,
or even beauty.
You fail to object when I throw
your little poem
to the floor on my way
to your body.

A shade hidden in rain-puddle-oil and January dust,
too dark for love. But please, slip fingers between
my clothes and my skin, press. Press in and whisper.
Whisper spells to quell the bloom of old ghosts and
sting of raw nerves.