Stones operate neoliths.
ritualistic circle,
open woman's head to pith.
one last flutter,
one more stone from detritus.

My cucumber grows
for a lovely ***,
fellow cumbers, trained,
put in rows,
cooling pinch
of old man habanero.
Cuz she is hotter than he,
in this summer heat,
so widespread her angle--
raising beans a'dangle,
as zucchini and I do wrangle,
for he has a large leaf,
but I have a long vine,
tho his girth could cover me,
I could climb higher inside,
to get to my lovely ***,
and she does not like grubs,
unearthed during their rubs,
for she told me so,

Oh my lovely ***,
*** me up, and bat me hard,
send my cucumber seeds
sailing over the neighbors yard.

Bed of sandcrystal,
warm, in north stream,
the demi-goddess,
Blue Crystalline.

paling boys,
in her eddies,
The Courtesan,
submerging pennies.

Breathless blue hair,
water up to thighs,
fine powder skin,
makes pins of eyes.

Such bliss,
such cold clime,
no coat,
in winter time.

hushes you on,
to sandy shoal,
her island,
cindering blue coal.

river bed turns brown,
swim out of fear,
gurgling lows of pain,
but returns her chandelier

water level caresses,
down to knees,
reaching nympth,
hot bath in winter breeze.

corsette of diamonds,
sparkles in night air,
middle of river--
isolation--her lair.

unalone now, warm,
your arms she is wrapt,
go to kiss her,
only gives neck and back.

try to turn her chin
to give her a kiss,
but snowflakes,
melt with fingertips.

island diminishing,
grip her tight,
nymph in arms,
sliver of moon-light.

dissolving island,
is blue hour-glass,
cold forest speaks,
"son come back"

you huddle to the,
last cinder that's dry,
she is reflection now,
inviting you inside.


a look back to forest,
is a look up as if--
you were descending,
fathoms to an ice cold abyss.

sky and forest are gone,
veil and hearse have met,
family frames twinkle,
down to you in her depth.

such bliss,
in such cold clime,
no coat,
in winter time.

Mid-dream--she comes,
'am tired, still work-clothed.
soft lullaby over threshold.

sometimes window pebble tap,
tired head in her jean lap.

but when she doesn't come,
loneliness, follows into dreams,
seductress, over threshold leaves.

a text, she must really exist,
steam in such a cold winter,
glazing my panes with mist.

lonely, tired; no ***** in daytime blur,
asleep in workboots--waiting for her. .

I am dying out loud,
from a wound to my hat,
how can I die,
from something like that?
I have her lettuce,
with the lettuce my poem lacks.
my hat needs an E.R,
and a brand new stat.

speed and burst govern the pond,
the hunting dragon fly the fastest,
but bass swallows up then absconds,
I throw my line under high hawk,
feeling good not to be preyed upon.