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Sep 16 · 33
PK Wakefield Sep 16
Winter's coming did you feel
it this morning
there is



leaves which

(did you)

crunching between


the mouth
and which
enumerates the light

fleckless strands
of sunlight

rich in mote
and flaring
about which
the coalesced

atom of LIFE

ever so
and briefly which
we all are

just a

rich mote

in a beam
Aug 31 · 29
PK Wakefield Aug 31
i am most alive

   (inside your)

where all
warmness resides
its cleaving
and pinched

i believe,
pink, which
pinkness with
cannot contend,

palely imitating
the body and hollow
color of your cheeks,

your makes
which body
(mine) when

inside all you
the completeness
of death
is most
Aug 31 · 171
PK Wakefield Aug 31
mind ,
     the    flesh
        thing ,
and if
   the undull
of body
through all
quiet darkness
a vibrous
luminent ,

Aug 18 · 72
PK Wakefield Aug 18
1 rude reality intrudes
its bulging
and inflamed
nose, about

which hangs
the paunchy
and florid

blud strung
by fine and
very narrow
little veins,

that weblike
spider across.

in their thinness
the neck down.

the hair is lank.

the eyes distended,
in which,
their is some sheen

the ******* hang,
(are limp),
and pendulous.
Jul 29 · 33
PK Wakefield Jul 29
where is my body
i will lie in it
the world

from which
my flesh
trees the heart
and my breath
will come

into the stars
gossamer and
flung neatly
the pate over

and my mouth
will be the sea
and foam

it will vibrate
from my own
valved throat

a single


through all darkness

a fulgent
Jul 8 · 34
PK Wakefield Jul 8
i lay here in bed
and my wife’s
beside me her
breathbody is
rhythmically and
i can hear sleepness
which the curved
blades of her back
commit each after
each of breathing
which her ribs
contain and her nose
vents between cartilage
and membrane making
the finest whistle
only finer than the
thinnest fineness of
her hair which also
is and beside me which
catches the lamp light:::

Jun 12 · 33
PK Wakefield Jun 12
i will be dead someday i wonder are you
reading this and who are you and where
is it that you have come and been and
have your eyes collected between them
each word of myself and this is the only
thing i suppose being but dirt and a little
scant ash (maybe atree) grows above me
and did you ever think the same hands
that held your son would be worm food
mud and birds meal (a robin maybe) R
there still robins i hope you kissed a
pretty girl last night I love you more
than anything .
Jun 12 · 40
PK Wakefield Jun 12
the wind is something
alive in my hand
and i look


after all i am occasionally myself.
Jun 12 · 29
PK Wakefield Jun 12
the world is alive
and i think
who knows?

is death,
maybe and
perhaps but
always nothingly

arrives somethingly
between the pressed hips of Rose Buds:
a little song.

              (and why not?)

because aren’t pretty girls after all,

their own voice which
breaks over ilia

the only alive
which a pond is .

(and let me tell you i have been inside the neatness and warmth of pond and spring where the fronds extend between cloves of sunlight there was many pretty girls between the thigh and hip bone up to the knee in bracken smelling of some cheap summmer wine)
Apr 19 · 51
PK Wakefield Apr 19
i love you
being the leg beneath mine
,my wife
who is
and feels warmly
something softness which
i love to feel



Apr 19 · 33
PK Wakefield Apr 19
i will be A Poem someday,
(or will i)?
being some earth
maYbe or (whynot)
a worm, and who
will remember nothing
of being what
i WAS NOT being
someday when i
was, and will U
be there 2? i
wonder laying next to my wife.
Apr 19 · 32
PK Wakefield Apr 19
my daughter moves
there is something
shakes moving
rattles a bit
falling she
into sleep
than all smallness
her tiny aspect is
warm and i think
Very perfectly small
and smaller than all
warmness. i fold the
several things of my
arms around her smallness








Feb 16 · 53
PK Wakefield Feb 16
i love you constantly
that you are my Wife
(and my Children also)

,and both my body and my lips

(i want to kiss you constantly)

your sweetness and your smile
and the smell off of your hair
and light sparkle of your eyes
and the very correct angle of your nose.

i love you always, that you are.

And that is no little thing
i think because
i love also the Spring,
our children,
the direct sheen of moonlight
on pale snow,
and always your constant hips.

i love them,
and not least,
but most;

for you are my wife:
always something,
easily eternal.

and I love you,

as nothing which is eternal
is not you;
nor the gate of your walk,
or the folding inwardness
warmth of your
creaseless thighs.

i want only to love you
for all my days and nights—
and when they are done;
spent of laughter and tears,
i will rest easily in the ceaseless
crook of your sea.   .    .
Feb 16 · 164
PK Wakefield Feb 16
who are we that we have been?

(I do not know.)

Nor have i or been,
or when and if,
and where?

perhaps if,
And I do not Know,
had i been
then i might,
being but little and a small nothing
(far from everything)
and walked.

Not Knowing,
i wonder.
Jun 2019 · 89
PK Wakefield Jun 2019
I love you, my wife, you are
beside me sleeping,
though earlier
you were warmly
within my hand,
your hand;

And I looked and I saw
you sitting there,
the light easily
within your eyes,
and all blueness peered
palely out;

What is more beautiful than you—
I do not know.

No more goodness that I know either.

(you are goodness ten times
the goodness that is me)

And kindness.

And I am always near to your thoughts.
And no one has ever loved me, as do you.

I love you, and I love you, and I love you.

You are my wife.
Always that I am.
And will be.

(i leaned over and kissed your cheek.
you were sleeping while, and were irritated—i could tell)
Jun 2019 · 85
PK Wakefield Jun 2019
It is still here now, I think.

The land is still.
The grass is still.
The water is still.

(the rain faintly against the glass is still.).

The earth is private in the smallness of its breathing.

It is the smallness of my son’s breathing.

I stand over him and I listen and I watch.

He breathes and the smallness of the world sleeps with him.

(my wife snores.
my daughter rustles in her crib.)

It is still here now, I think, perhaps.
Mar 2019 · 190
PK Wakefield Mar 2019
cool this
finger over

             the world)

and beneath
the hair the
slick stuff
of love:

F L O W E R S  .    

the quick cloth
of trees a stag

(twining tine)

‘tween root and sea

. And the taste of everything

perhaps is
the last
breath of (almost) Spring

when neck and kissing
each smoothness of skin arrives.

Opening all doors—
fills all hallways:

the laughing of children
and the whispers of mothers
Dec 2018 · 116
PK Wakefield Dec 2018
i need but one word to speak
before all entreaty close me:
the sighs of women weak
and all the ladies holy.
Dec 2018 · 87
PK Wakefield Dec 2018
my wife that i love you are sleeping
heat over heat
of my ankle yours ;

the trilling
thrum of
your snore is long

longer than the long night
of unsleepingly my body,

heat under heat

of your body mine.  .  .

i hear occasionally our son
also whose snoring
is small
ll er

than he is
(can you believe?)
Jun 2018 · 161
PK Wakefield Jun 2018
that you are
after all
who i wish i had become,

       (i do not know you)  .

the lips neither the mouth nor
teeth between neck.

i kiss,
and again
i am not you.

i make after the rain
my skin to run
with rivulets of sun.

i do not live early
or sweet between you.

i do not make the small sound
of your breath
inside my own breath.

but, after all, i have my son.

and what more is there than that?


and perhaps
(after all)
he shall be
who i wish i had become.
Oct 2017 · 329
PK Wakefield Oct 2017
my wife,

you are my flesh,
within your flesh:

            (my son)

who sleeps within you.

i love you that you are me,
and i am you;
inside your body
which sleeps beside me.
Oct 2017 · 459
PK Wakefield Oct 2017
slee  ep.  .   .




i am alive in you;

      (in thy body–

          and amongst thy leaves

            i am naked and fragrant )

i am touching the cool spine
and the cambered wrist;
lightly mute, **** and bruised
with dark veins.

your cheeks are pale;
your eyes are soft–
hugely brimming
with neat darkness.

you come over the mouth.
you hold the breath
between delicate fingers.

you are nearly kissing,
each nearly moment of body.

you move with quick slowness:
never rushing,
never uncarefully treading.

((s l ee p..   .


         you are alive;

i am awake in you.


Sep 2017 · 209
PK Wakefield Sep 2017
who again is this place?

(i see you there--alive and sleeping;
amongst white flowers)

i kiss you lightly.

i am sorry for all the things i have done.

i will love you always.

Aug 2017 · 509
PK Wakefield Aug 2017
i am
(after all)
alive in you

                       this day .

the soft brushing,
the course fiber,
the flaxen hair.

i kiss you smally.

you do not stir
more than a pale breath
around your nostrils.

my son is inside you.

i will always love you.

Mar 2017 · 327
PK Wakefield Mar 2017
within thy white
thy flesh hath fold,
where fingereds tight
and girl is told.
Mar 2017 · 346
PK Wakefield Mar 2017
this makes sleeping,
inside your slender,
the beginning song of life:

my lip;
the shoving of sudden fur;
your own quaking;
and the collapsed nerve.

and the each new little thing of it
(ever day)
makes life in smooth jolts.

love as a woman,
who wears within,
our love in something

very alive,
quickly with 10 fingers
10 toes and grows
inside that hive
where my love as flesh
has lingers.
Mar 2017 · 315
PK Wakefield Mar 2017
i love
you've are

           (alive) and i,

kissing within
the sleeping dawn:

wide white awake.

our small shoulders;
who's naked makes
our heart perspire
1 leaf of grass.

you are gold.
your hair is.
your mouth does.
i sometimes.
and have always.

love kiss laughter sleep argue sweat dream kiss kissing inside laughter
Feb 2017 · 269
PK Wakefield Feb 2017

you are there
you are something
i think that you are easily dreamless.

you are the white
turning over of pale morning
into your neck and the pooled freshness of your *******.

you are these two things:
my hands–which make within
themselves bloodsong and wine.

finely twined with pale wire,
your eyes rest below your scalp:
they are chips of ice–limpid; ****.

(you stir you pull your hand into my
hand i kiss over the sleeping of your
white cheeks i stroke your golden hair
i slip my leg under your leg:

I can never touch enough of you.)
Jan 2017 · 509
PK Wakefield Jan 2017
I know I tell you this all the time, but I love you so much. I'm so unbelievably thankful to have you in my life. You are the most perfect woman I have ever met.

I know you are sleeping right now, and I know it's the most beautiful thing on this earth, because I have watched you sleep, curled up next to me. The neat calmness of your face, the way your hair falls across your cheek–I love it, I love it so much.

I want to be prefect for you. I want to make you happy and fill every moment of your life with joy.

I feel stupid. These words just aren't what I want them to be. I wish I could truly tell you how much I care about you, but I just can't seem to put it the right way.

You are always within me. You are within my blood and soul. You are within every pulse of my heart, every lash of sunlight, every strain of laughter that passes from my lips.

I'm going to do my best to love you and treat you with the care and respect that you deserve. I know I'm not perfect, but please know that I am trying to be better.

I wish I could kiss you. I wish I was laying next to you tonight. I wish I could kiss your brow, and nuzzle you with my nose. I wish I could lay my hand across your skin and feel the heat of it pour through my skin.

Sleep softly and soundly, my love. I will think and dream of you tonight.

I hope you read this in the morning. I hope that some small amount of what I want to say comes through this to you.

I will think about you tomorrow while I'm at work. I will imagine the feeling of your hand in mine. I will remember the warm smell of your chest. I will think of you and love you, and my love will guide me to work hard and honestly. To do what ever I need to do to make our life as good as it can be.

I love you so much. Sleep well. I can't wait to see you again.
Dec 2016 · 261
PK Wakefield Dec 2016
my love, i give you my life
the eyes


the lips totally which
are for only your lips;

my love, my hands are
your hands, my mouth
is your mouth, my love

my fingers are the brushing
of sunlight, against which
your skin folds effulgent;

my love, my fingers are
the blithe petals of Spring
damp within your roots:

(you are the cool and dark
soil of Summer, my love,
you are within each curling
of my breast, each turning
of my blood through stem
and shoot)

my love, i love thee,
the burnished gold
of your scalp, the
mute laughter of
your eyes; my love,

i am made and unmade
within your hands

      (our hands)

Nov 2016 · 185
PK Wakefield Nov 2016
open me–in this thy woken self;
please me be, within thy cloven helth.

loose thy lock:

o' woven skin and flock of grass,
where Spring hath root
and worm has pass.

be this blithe o' bonny bell
that peels in darkness a golden tell;

for thee, for thou, my hands are made,
to tend thy soul
                             , and flowing glade.
Nov 2016 · 240
PK Wakefield Nov 2016
"Well I suppose I realized at a certain point how important physical affection is for me. Touching and being touched is immensely satisfying and reassuring to me. I only ever really feel alive when I'm near someone–kissing them, smelling them, the heat of their skin soaking my skin. It's the only thing I really want. It's the only reason I'm still alive.

For that moment. That perfect moment when someone opens themselves to me in that way. That first parting of their lips, the taste of their saliva. The taste of their neck. The feeling of their wrists in my hands. That openness, that vulnerability and surrender. Saying without saying, 'touch me, love me, **** me–I'm yours, I'm yours, I'm yours.'"
Nov 2016 · 215
PK Wakefield Nov 2016






Nov 2016 · 204
PK Wakefield Nov 2016
these things of dreaming:

"I will always love thee."

(there is no love:

"I just want to ****–and then die."

Nov 2016 · 176
PK Wakefield Nov 2016
I will return again in you. In these
hands of night, made lean and
gleaming. I will move within you and
my body shall be as light. I will turn
my face into your cool fingers and I
will love them.

(I will make my body in your body.
      "I will always love you."
Nov 2016 · 184
PK Wakefield Nov 2016
she tastes like something
inside slick
and red between the legs,

her mouth makes lips
make hips
and i between them

churn thickly
over the cup and hem
hot within bleeding;

my mouth drinks her
lips speaking–
drinking lips

and mouth, my
fingers drown inside
her; i kiss over fumbling

and she tastes

(and i taste)

inside our mouth:


Oct 2016 · 180
PK Wakefield Oct 2016
the eyes turn over fingers
turn over wine and flesh,

teeth tasting and small
inside the hips

(where my mouth lives
with 2 blades of youth.)
Oct 2016 · 164
PK Wakefield Oct 2016
within these lips
are 2 folds of kiss,

pulling with feeling
to saltwine and ****.
Oct 2016 · 238
PK Wakefield Oct 2016
Does loving want *******, only?

(I'm not sure–after all
maybe because
what else has a hand
ever turned over
the hem of something
supple soft and spun
within its thighs 2 thick
fingers of gasping?)

Love is it even, really?

(I've never known no loving
unless it had its mouth draped
over my hips and I broke
sighing through heart and lung
its swallowing throat.)

What is purely something if not loving?

(loves not nothing–but it's rubbing.)
Oct 2016 · 272
PK Wakefield Oct 2016
i laugh:

i am sleeping somewhere,
the sound is halfway between
nothing, and something
is quickly some sharp breaths.

i pull over the night is
coolwarm wet inside the lips;
autumn is full and rotting
with the terse hush of moon light.

(i don't know what i am doing here)

           my muscles coil and wax
i tug the covers sharply
          my flesh washes in roiling heat

i wish for something soft
something neatly apart and needs me;
my lips fumble with a dry kiss:

"I love you. I want you. Please."
Oct 2016 · 216
PK Wakefield Oct 2016
"It's like, I know you love god, but I
just want to bend you over a table and
*******–and I think you want it too.

I know you believe in all these things
and far be it from me to say they are
wrong, but under your skin I can
tell there is something else.

You pulse with something raw,
painful, and violent.

You seem to tremble with palpable aggression.

Give me the pain–give me the Valkyrie
I know you are.

I want you to hurt me, and I want to hurt you. Your neck is so pretty.
All I can think of is what it would
feel like in my hand.

We could be something so ugly and
beautiful. I can feel it within you.

It seems barely contained within you.

But maybe we shouldn't.

Maybe you shouldn't.

I don't want you to do something you don't want to.

But I want you. I want you to want it."
Oct 2016 · 365
PK Wakefield Oct 2016
You stand very close to me I can
feel the heat from your skin it leaches
into my skin I am breathing (smallly)
your breaths as you are smallly
breathing mine my hand accidentally
touches your hand I'm (not) sorry I
wonder are you sorry I touched your
hand very close to my hand and I
would like to touch it I would like to
taste you between the near wetness of
your lips and drink the fair vial of your
health I wonder why do you stand so
close to me I hope it's because you
want to accidentally touch me 2.
Oct 2016 · 166
PK Wakefield Oct 2016
christian has her hair long
her face plain without
lip of makeup, and her
brief mouth is without rose;

  (i know)

i'm unsure why
the lips nothing
and hair plainly
with longness

seems feverishly something to have.

(wants i wonder which
within your hips are softly sleeping;
it needs to fill the itch–
their strictness always keeping)      .
Oct 2016 · 420
PK Wakefield Oct 2016
"I guess–I don't know–underneath it all I'm just a romantic. I've loved (I will always love), and I suppose when I'm dead someday that will only be what's left: some vague echo of a moment I shared with someone. But really, and truthfully, I loved them in that moment.

And I will live, who knows how long, but I will live and I will carry in my heart those moments. The tasting and touching of those moments. I will hold them in my heart, and in my own way, I will always love them. Each one. Each moment and tongue.

It is sad and it is wonderful–that I got to have any of them at all, and that I got to have none of them. But that's probably on me–I'm not always the best person.  

I don't know, I guess I'll just keep trying. But please know I loved them. All of them, in their own way.

I'm sorry for who I am. I'm sorry if I ****** up. I just wanted to be happy. I just wanted to taste someone's skin and live.

Maybe tomorrow I'll die. Who knows.

Anyway, I love you. Goodnight."
Oct 2016 · 572
PK Wakefield Oct 2016
this thing is very pretty.
it does not say much,
its cheeks are pale over
and beneath blossomed with crimson.

it has 2 light eyes
of greeness which
move softly over the nose
and lips–2 florid strips of pinking.

its hair is spun of evening sunlight,
red hushed and riven with ray.

this thing is rare
and beautiful
and lovely beyond lovely.

this thing is a girl,
she says
her name.

her eyes move softly,
and her cheeks shine as blood with snow.

few things have ever been so perfect,
few things have ever been so girl.
Oct 2016 · 228
PK Wakefield Oct 2016

          lot of the time I feel like I'm
               in love with someone
                    I've never met

Sep 2016 · 378
PK Wakefield Sep 2016
i believe in a story

               (it is my love)

the passing of my hands through light,
the coming of slight graces,
the bended stocks of mute flowers.

my love
you are without skin,
your eyes do not see,
your lips do not kiss.

my love
i love you–

         (and where

are you?

my love you
are the whole neatness
wishing within me

to feel the slight pressing
of heat beneath your skin;

the pulsed flexing of your vein
and hem. my love you are

the small darkness
and tiny quiet of my
heart to fill you kissing;

the crimped weakness of your knees,
the playing of your eyes after nightfall,
the winking fleetness of your cheeks.)

And, my love
are you

  where ?

(i can feel you)

even with space
between breathing
and heat between us;     my love

i can feel your someday lips
within my lips the
waxing of your palm
within my palm.

my love
(and i have always loved you)
will believe
in the story

of your hands and lips:

the passing of my hands through light,
the coming of slight graces,
the bended stocks of mute flowers.
Sep 2016 · 161
PK Wakefield Sep 2016

"I'm sorry."

I love you.

(I'm sorry.)


Sep 2016 · 253
PK Wakefield Sep 2016
(there is always this moment)

quietly . littlely

    soft within

bed and thinking
of lips eyes hair
still and strenuously

pressed beneath breast         .

the heart feels
and pushes against
rib and spine;

(a fan plays
the cat eats)

and lingers little sleep,
for thought is always
and always of thoughts

there is something
difficultly serene

improbable to touch
yet touches with
exacting grace;

My dear:

       My love
           of nothing
                Little which

you are
not real
your hand is a vapor

of tense reeling to tingle
under skin which rushes
with clovered spice
of splintered health.

(my love i have always loved you
that you are not something real;
Sep 2016 · 174
PK Wakefield Sep 2016
being inside
too long to taste
or see,

there is the
dumb something
naked which

laughter and youth
have forgotten;

(the move music
and art sound;

the color and splay
of vibrant self)

being where

              (some     where)

inside too much
without feeling
or smelling

has just to want
and taste something seems:

of flower,
,and petal.
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