My Dear who's come through winter
Growing with soft roughness
How you have become my kiss,

The pressing of my heart within
my breast,
And the pushing of my breath.

Oh Dear your hands are small
And move into my hands
With smallness, their pale beauty.

Dear, in Winter, who is dying,
You are life made skin and health;
Your lips are always playing
With softness as their wealth.

keep these hands alive in your hands; that they walk and breathe; that their skin becomes downy in the spring, and from them spears love-roots of dark grass, filling over the hills and meeting with the excellent night their shining bodies.

live, love and smell the rich perfume of your lovers hips; meet and again touch with them your cheeks, and delight in them–the coil of their heap.

they are with your body, and to touch another's is a great privilege–and i know it.

wander and know the nape of them; laugh and extend your blood into their own.

invite their inspirations into your own breast, and make with it one respiration.

they are cool and wonderful between the ears; they are soft laughter and stupid giggling; they are the arcuate sleep of a rose thorn–deeply within your skin.

know and love them.

hold not back your laughter, nor praise, nor joy in their clutch.

touch, ramble, delight in the visceral perfusion of their mouth and kiss.

(Alive)

and again
i am here


dreaming

of somewhere
(withyou)–

alive         –

and

d
  r
e    a
m i n

    g.

my mind again returns to these thoughts of mouth:
the parting of seaways; the excellent bridge
of its voice; the smothering intonation of
its warm and bossom cloister.

i remember it in the new morning; naked and shifting of limbs.
it kissed down the back and tasted
between its thighs of sighing and saltsea–cheek and blushing.

i remember and i move:
the winsome drove of its dull dream
catch and habituate me. i am alone in its fingers; and even from which other kisses cannot wake.

occasionally there is laughter–i can hear–from way off.


there is the curving tremble of its arc.

mirror me
catch
this softly
snowing
outsidenight

where two and
three girlthings

the soul of boy
wars         rings;

hair in shortly
which some
*** wears

her mouth without
lipstick saying,

"kiss me–


       (i am soft)"

likes to be under,
O which
rough hands

grow thicker
more with

hair and fiber
of health

parting within darkness
its plait;

divulging

                      1

effulgent shard
of cheek

(


          through which
          heart and
          flower

                           speak
                                       ))

simple is works hard
and stupidly grins
at little this joke and
little that story of
fishing or going to
the zoo one summer
with his kids–

breathing and is
alive he (simply)

smiles and knows
without knowing

it is good to live