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.

goodnight.

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.


(...sleep)

within thy white
thy flesh hath fold,
where fingereds tight
and girl is told.

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.

i love
you've are
been:

           (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

hello.

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.)

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.

my love, i give you my life
the eyes

   (unerringly)

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)


               .

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.

"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.'"

.

















                               (

                                       )


                        (




                                                   )



                                  
















.

these things of dreaming:

"I will always love thee."

(there is no love:

"I just want to ****–and then die."




                            )

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."
                  Goodbye.

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:

rust,

       .

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.)

within these lips
are 2 folds of kiss,

pulling with feeling
to saltwine and ****.

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.)

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."

"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."

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.

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)      .

"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."

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.

.







































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











































.

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.

.








































"I'm sorry."

I love you.

(I'm sorry.)

"Goodbye."











































.

(there is always this moment)


quietly . littlely

    soft within

bed and thinking
of lips eyes hair
breathing
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
somewhere
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;

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,
,hips
grass,
,and petal.

this lily new,
bright with white petals :

seems to sink
seems to speak,

bobbing and
whitely with petal

the wind over its
hair; the sound and

      (sometimes)

of its hollow full
of pistil and rind .

who is alive thinks:

-sunlight

-dull air

          riven with

                     rose smell;


perchance which
the rain with
mingles.


(autumn is near
her dress is fine
her hair is long
and serious,

it throws over
the mountains
and is alive

with crips dampness)


the bed is smooth and deep.
it pulls deeply,
and arms wonder for dreams.

to be dreaming
in the fine arms of autumn;

whose dress is nice
and whose dull serious hair
is
  riven
      with
         rose
          smell.

i loved you
that you were something
easyweak
between the flesh and eyes;

doing with precise smallness
your hands within my hands.

"I tried."

After all, "I love you."

(what more could i do?)

loving tried sorrily a girl
to make out
of too much whiskey
something which

loves it too.

writing–i'm not sure–
maybe this
or that,

to fill perhaps;
between which nothing
is but pale.

the tiny thing life has hands making hands into gold against light
flashing against dark and bones beneath skin the smell of roses
and taste of a girl neck drunk in short hair and black nails chipped
catching in the chambers of its heart the easily nothing blood
that makes its hands to make laughter, saltsun, thighs deeply new
and rush thrusting with quiet silk and the neatest trimming of
health.

how again these alive with men breaths
go to work and stop their living
on balance and "problem solving"

every morning to make
just stuff with which to have
a little this and a little that of
life and drink merrily with

friends, a neat car
and to
(perhaps)
longingly ******
between the lives of others
even more life:

it is completely appropriate;
and to be strange is maybe
responsible if you have an cat and
have to get home early to feed him–

(cats can't feed themselves)

he says under the breaths
he is
going to work
on balance
and "problem solving"

Every  Morning

hello dying you look so pretty
in short shorts suddenly
over skin a little,

                            .

                    hangingly
with increased health
the air up outside my
  hillwindow

                            ;

each graciously
perceiving thigh
a thing full with
lush and wonder

                             .


                             .


                             .

                             groped with hair
                           with
                             some
                           short
                             shot
                          through
                               by gold
                          and like you
                                   dying also
                       sun


                             ,

this thing has eyes.

its mouth does the wide thing
with flesh and teeth over its
voice which seems easily
keen and darts under its
breath;

it can't but hear to speak,
and says softly–somehow:

a dream which dreamily dreams
up the sun scarred air into
the summer sunlashed
,and comes through window
a little gossamer with pale
blankets of downy light.

(you are dreaming, my dear,
in our bed your hair makes
a dark coiling of itself over again
against itself, and the stark pillow
of your nape and breast;

–breath easy–

it is summer within and cooly
shrugs with the light patter
of seawind, gull throats,
and the stuttering jangle
of a somewhere bell-lined
noose.

how easy it is to be an orchid,
i think, leaning into my thoughts
and the words on a page
while you sleep
your lips
around
each
smooth
dallop of your
chest–breathing–and gently:

i kiss you in my mind.
                                         )   )   )    )      )

this rough sometimes of a star
within the grit of wind
moves all scepters to still

the stirring of their grip to seize

and make loose their hands.

(that they might hold
the cupping of that final flint

where from which a spark shall new
and in colors bright, a morning do.)

giving up of cent;
and bills no more their fists to clench.

(my dear there is world within this kiss;
this breath and dew.

i live; shall feel;
have of body been and went
into fields alive with colors bent.)

make this thy cheek to speak:
this single promise of the earth to break

beneath the tread of stars,
where grass and flower coo–

and with the rain
a tiny song of evening make,
                                                  ,
       ­                                           ,
                    ­                              ,
                                 ­                 ,
                                              ­    ,
                                                  ,
       ­                                           .

That I was alive: I suppose,

there was a certain eager meaning to
these moments–wide and short–these
hours–fat and narrow–these years
long and deep–

the stars, the lunging of my breast, the
turned curving of a sunrise, the rapid
expulsion of blood, tunneling suddenly through artery and vein;
I guess.

Looking and wondering; I turn my
hand over in a spent beam of sunlight. Its span tumbling with that heavy glow–it iridesces.

(I love you.

Knowing I will die–I love you.)

I am walking in some hall. There is the fast purring of a cat. Easily my breath inhumes and exhumes the space within my chest. Heart beating. Air and flesh exchange.

How easily it is to be–it seems these
hands are mine over your *******. I put
my fingers in your mouth. Your tongue
tousles their fiber. I make and unmake
myself in your hips.

The thick leaning of this chair into my back–where are you?

(Reading this perhaps.

And am I alive? And where?

Or dead?

Could be.)

And what is death?

Dying after all, it is, I guess, what I am.


There was the forest today. And five minutes ago I kissed you.


I am incomplete–I can feel
the way this shirt turns over the skin of
my arm. Somebody is speaking French on the radio.


"I will be dead someday." I want to whisper.


(I will be dead someday.


I love you.)

there is, after all,
one thing
(after my breath)

–a star–

hung loose
and into the night
(which is my soul)

dreaming through
moist lips
and the cup of flower

a kissing of pale light;
the rough newness of rain;
and the smell softly afterward.

each pairing

  --parting--

comes over words
lips over
sounds of
throats young.

hubble bubble
(outside)
below the window sill:

                
                        summer; and; ******

(being just flesh)


pulls a little something softly
of smile over sleep;

tangles a breath
in noon light–





                                                                                           wh isp e r i  n    g





          




                                                                  S.



a hanging finger
of loose
Spring

twixt lips:

    (spearing silence)



tugs into arms
a trembling rough




                                                                    Of
                                                           s
                                                                 t
                                                                       e
                                                                             a
                                                                                   m      

                                                     s   i      n       g     i           n     g



                                        

kiss.



       .


       .

       .
       .

who becomes our bodies
after our flesh splits ways
with life and makes with
root worm and sun glass
the several blades of grass ?

(i'm making and again wonder
evenly obscene
in the sunlight over my arms
brushed with noon beams
and shadows tightly beneath
my feet;

i think,
and splay over the mind
of children's voices
hurryingly hunched
and bruising the silence
slightly with slim slivers
of giggling–

(there's a boat waiting for me)(

i have to go))(

goodbye  )   )    )

this coming mouth over softly of sunlight

is subtle stuff and warmly arrives

through cheek as pink as rose
blood,

**** laughing, the

fooling of fingers in dark hair,

the rich surprise of lips
in a dark room
pinkly aware with morning–

grunts rolling over into
my arms and i

kiss its neck

(this small naked

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)"