Home is where the lights in the city
shine as if they are inside of you
emanating from your stomach
traversing the spaces between your teeth
until they reappear against your lips.
Home is where the gates of the city
stretch out like arms
and cradle your shoulders
inviting you in to stay awhile.
Home is where the fresh snow
brings warmth
you could kiss the ground
you’ve missed it so much.
Home is the lover and the beloved
though you know you will see it again
you are never ready
for the weight of its embrace.

COOL your heels on the rail of an observation car.
Let the engineer open her up for ninety miles an hour.
Take in the prairie right and left, rolling land and new hay crops, swaths of new hay laid in the sun.
A gray village flecks by and the horses hitched in front of the post-office never blink an eye.
A barnyard and fifteen Holstein cows, dabs of white on a black wall map, never blink an eye.
A signalman in a tower, the outpost of Kansas City, keeps his place at a window with the serenity of a bronze statue on a dark night when lovers pass whispering.

You'd make a really nice submissive.
Oh, I can only imagine. You being blind folded & *******. Thoroughly depending on your senses to guide you.
To calm you.
As a feeling of adventure and potential danger lurks inside of you. You feel sinfully tempted. You feel bad.
You want to taste blood.
But you'd be willing to give into it. No?
Let yourself be dominated.
For the night. For the other. For oneself. For the moment. For the sin.
Think.
Not knowing where he would touch you.
What part of you will be blessed first?
Where would he settle and take refuge?
And until so you would eagerly wait for his gentle, soft and devilish touch upon your skin to devour you.
You would wait. Wouldn't you?

I find that certain evasive
nobility missing in her character

She is a well polished diamond
that can never shine;
Abundant confidence, so little material

Wait, wait, wait you'll say
She'll wait wait
Then she'll fall in the end

Unburdens the dusky river

dreams of flow dead in the bog of hyacinth
harvest burnt in the scorch of aridity
ripples robbed by the silt of dogma
sunbeam denied by the **** of creed

I was meant to reach the sea,
now I would never make it.

I pick the river's shattered pieces
with my own from the wintry dusk.