You're not the bobble that I left,
Just the healing I forget,
Just the hook.
You're not the line,
You're not the tow.

You're not the hours that I sleep,
Just the darkness of the deep,
Just the book.
You're not the turn.
You're not the close.

Will I walk?
The tempers rise.
And at my best, the heater dies,
Becoming breath,
By easy dance,
One with the field.

Of mirrored love,
And ego cries,
Feel buried truth as sown to rise.

A letting go,
As water flows,
Become the Yield.

Had your heart tendrils,

  I would tear into your face
like time to deserts.


Your words won't blank me.

Efforts to stone,
gladness to walls,
your lips await the heavier things.

          Three years will pass
    before you know what I see.


I'm lifting full breadth,

              you'll come to me,

                   with small pauses-sad,

                                      I'm lifting full breadth.

And I'll never have to ask,
                         "Is it enough?"


     "is this enough?"

(smiley-eyed answered)

all that's alive
are my hands and lips

the rest is vinery


there's nothing to touch
the brain to tips

just a bested line in me


we're empty enough
swollen rosen-hips

lust's a slow findery

How could I service the demons?
So colorful is the score.

I forgot my place once writing began.
What the hell is a poem for?


(mind your head,
once the elephant said,
"such ego will stain the door")

the shrouds are soiled,
without defense,
the curdled salve is laid.

no time is spent
without pretense,
the just of karma's paid.

we wallow in,
and swallow shouts,
with efforts all but flayed.

so born to age
through wrestling bouts,
and expressions left unplayed.

deadpan,

    fix the light
       in the hall.


slowscan,

    take a flight
       reap a fall.


longstand,

    shorten sight
       drop the call.


wait the rain
    wait the rain
    
           wait the rain