The further the distance
The more I desire
Your cold winters lips
Upon my hot summers fire

She saw the box and her heart did flutter,
Her fingers fumbled and her conscience muttered.
The clasp undid, the lid lifted free,
And oh the horrors the world would now see.
The rivers were dried and famine did reap,
So many a soul there were none left to weep.

She lay on the floor and she cried and she shuddered,
For she was to blame, only her and no other.
The gods fury was that of which she most feared,
They would take all she loved and **** all she reared.
Distraught and sobbing on the floor of that room,
A notion of peace interrupted her doom,
From the box it emerged and the darkness then broke,
For last but not least the world would have hope.

7/21/2015

sitting on the wooden bench in the middle of the park the
couple across from us rolls something
to smoke the “hooligans”
(who am I? That was me months ago)
congregate on a bridge overpass
a dog lies down

your tears do not fall steadily and well
practiced like mine,
in a cacophony like an abscess
in a concrete dam wall

clutching your shirt, cursing masculine dogma,
my fingernail pushes a little orange seed of water and you
blindly take out a pack of menthol

you offer me one– you never do
I take it, light it, burn it out after five moments,
I press my face against yours so our tears blend, this nodule of saline congregating merging like a bacteria

as it falls ahead on the ground
our tears, one
hit the Silent concrete on the grey New York

fat rats  play on the nettles behind us.

Some say
she is lost to writing poems
snippets, little vignettes of beauty
so much nature inspired, obsessed
with green, botany driven desires
forever in skies, blue, or black with stars
meteor showers, falling, melting
like the liquid silver, red sea of mars
crashing waves, her days
tossed, tumbled, stumbling onto poetry
there is no fault, in words
no shame to be made
would be a sorrowful price to pay
she is writing to find
some truths, a sleuth, a seeker
of going within, without doubt
writing to find herself
most days searching out signs of life
to feel what it would be like, to be
in trees, in leaves, to sleep in green towers
of garden lily bowers
to finally dream in lucid colors, surreal
climbing invisible ladders
in orchards of apple blossom Springs
to sing, sing, sing