With all your expert mouth and
tongue of many tribes you
call me to the dance floor
of your poetry.

I ear your accent, I tongue the
vowels of your incredible name

which blossoms every morning.
I bed to your brown eyes when
touch begs rest from incessant
breathing.

You are wheat chaff and I am
the wind which blows over the dead dreams of aged memory.

I understand now the satiety
of your love.  The desert of
uncertainty where the bridge
of your wanderings
crossed my month
of ecstasy.

You are the list I take to
mind's far places when
thoughts of you are

exhausted.


Caroline Shank

At night the walls turn crimson red,
Your phantom chest is ‘neath my head,
The smell of comfort settles in
Among the tingles on my skin
That still remain from days ago,
My ribcage in your hand to show
We fit like jigsaw pieces do.
But night no longer summons you
And so I watch the walls return to blue.

- p. winter