War paint I always found unnecessary:
Gloss for manicured lipstick commercial princesses
Not of my kind.

And though I walk with shield, I am without armour:
Ramparts mere cheekbones,
Bare skin impressionable as snow.

Boot-print,
The mark I hated. My characters:
Frail tree rings, exposed to the chill night air.

Gold inlay frozen solid.
The fairly bound dream factory
Lies purple with melancholy.



It’s the world’s bruise. It colours sudden,
Shadowing the other side of the room
Where it paused, rare moth

Lighted upon my dark reflection,
A Mona Lisa dressed in black
And reminiscent of bobby sox.

Beauty without fanfare.
Stuff of woods: we do not glitter.
We don’t call out.

Our tongues are both dumbstruck bells.
Shy rabbits, we fold within ourselves
And sequester our secret pulp.

To hold her hand is to hold
The vast universe within my palm
The strings of infinity against my skin
Where sparks fly like falling stars
From our fingertips entwined
Like planets–we are aligned

To hold her hand is to hold
The spirals of the Milky Way
Between our fingers, laced together
Night; for she is humble moon
Day; for she is brilliant sun
She is every color of the spectrum

To hold her hand is to hold
Cosmic rays and lightning beams
(You wouldn't understand)
Wild interstellar dreams
(But all I really want to hold–
is her hand.)