.
The moon undresses you, little bird,
Your eyes are indigo skies without stars,
Your breath is summer grass after shower.
How you hold your arms before the night,
A lance of milky sheen and flailing bliss,
Your arms arrest as they softly surrender
And your ******* overflow in moist shores
Of white sand and shells, little ears to kiss,
I am drowning in your curves on the waves
From the sea, delirious with eye of moon,
Drunk with wild ocean as it consumes me,
Your hair is new grassland to run through,
Windy as a child breaking for the beach,
I latch my fingers to yours like driftwood
Tangled in kelp, the salt we share, steeps,
Is **** and deep and our lips are shucked
Oysters, blind, iridescent, sliding with eyes
Into the famished throat of ***** heavens.
.

( sonnet )*

The morning world in mist dissolves and under,
Towed to heaven, we, a plod below the death
Of clouds, sing mute, where they trumpet-glide
Flashing into peace.  Three-toed slabs, parched
Of orange, web the stars over the wine
Dark seas and chalk the churn and twining earth
Into gloaming.  In rapt stillness they,
Are import and income, parables,
Echoes of the innocent song sung to a spire,
Gilded hutches, to those who heap on brightness
Swans are brighter even more with blackest
Eyes, they pierce the silent shroud all starry.
I wish that we were like two swans my love,
Neck of nape, embracing without touch.
.

.
“If the doors of perception were cleansed, everything would appear to man as it is - infinite.”
― William Blake

.
In this room
Drowning,
In ocean flesh,
Our days, replay,
With eyes cut
Out under sheet
Of stars.  All is
Not real, screened
For a soul, lost
On the dry lands
We bury ourselves
In.  

      One day we shall
Wake into the sun,
And bathe in the light
Of unbridled constellation
And voids deeper than
Life, holy and actual
Like drowning flesh,
Come, alive in sky,
Lit by eternal sheen,
Lost memories, grace,
Being burn, new sparkle,
Cast to air, as embers preen.

“In the universe, there are things that are known, and things that are unknown, and in between, there are doors.”
― William Blake
.

.
Under loving branches of tree,

Singing birds bathe in garden,

Butterfly and cat jostle, sleepy,

Flowers bolt into the open sun.

( Sonnet )*

How can my lips survive,
The wait of beamed kisses,
From your green, fey eyes,
Pinned, blind by the sun?
O like scarlet dipping into
Seas, your lips are setting
All the skies aflame in dusk
From them, my poor body
Suffering to explore yours,
Heavenly eyes, unearthly,
Bodies ****** lips to dream,
Merest, only dream. Pray
Tell me surest, sweetest lie,
How can my lips survive?