what does a survivor do
upon the re-entry into life?

dame's rocket
lion's mouth
bittersweet

Though winter stripped the orchard boughs,
I still think of harvest kisses.
I loved you then and maybe now;
my first bite, my red delicious.

Not so long ago
you thought that I made the weather;
you braved me

and when you thought the sun would be nice
I gave you auspicious skies
and a sweet, cool breeze
so that you might feel me,

so that I could whisper in passing
I love you, remember?

Well, I don't make the weather,
but I still love you.
Remember?

One summer evening in the grass
while all the bees were sleeping,
I tucked a flower in your hair
and asked you if you'd keep me.

Because inventing heaven
from pebble and mist
was backbreaking,
heartquaking
work

and
because I
shivered with 
fever, my body lit
by rapture unfathomed,

I sought stillness in the mouth
of the ocean, gave myself
to her shallows and,
with sleepy eyes, 
said

Leave 
me here.
You laid hands to my 
dreaming curves. They became 
dunes, shifting; you filled my sky with birds.

Should it matter what we call it?
What sound our mouths make?
That's just typology, interpretation;
my love for words doesn't mean
I find them adequate.
Do we have to call it anything?

Can't I just say
*I will love you tonight, 
like that girl you write poems for,
only better ?

We were warworn; you were weary with
my wild, wayward theories
and as I worried, so it worsened.
That's the way.

You were waygone from your wanderings;
I was waiting for you, always.
You were wolfish, but
I wanted you to stay.