Milka touched
Benedict
on the arm

her fingers
running down
to his hand

Benedict
touched Milka
on her thigh

his fingers
running up
to her ***

their lips met
hot kisses
wet tonguing

both eyes closed
his fingers
making play

her fingers
tickling
his open palm

she thinking
dream like things
wedding bells

wedding rings
he thinking
fingers warm

entering
opened her
like flower

in spring time
her beauty
undone him

****** him dry
she asked him
her questions

like girls do
he answered
one word why?

This, like you, is made only for 3:37am.
Not 3:36—not 3:38.
This costly minute
which slips under my tongue
and into my bloodstream.

It took only a minute.
It took only a minute.

the winter has shed tears for the year, seeding ambition in soil.
my daffodils remember to spring. folding inside a
hot bed of bacteria.

i turn and bend in tuned to chronic aches.
each twist in the tree around time
caught a glimpse
of lighting showers.  

this garden is filled with dead leaves.

the first bloom of heat.
sparks, a summer fire.

I’m still convinced
that my purpose in life
was to look out
at a beautiful spring day
and write a poem about it

I remember the day well—
When your lips traveled down my neck like a greyhound bus,
Stopping at the station of my collarbone and lighting a cigarette there during the five-minute break.
Traced me down once more and—
All of your belongings still in the cargo hold—
then left.

The promise
of tonight
stirs within

Let it
soon
begin