Spring's little fingers hurt
(pink at the blood)and
push through the lips
of every branch, its pistil.

you speak
says the rain
very heavy
out of the north
over the tops of
trees into the
forest becomes
the soil filled
with nostril
of pine,

and the street goes
merry outside
the classroom
the wind and pane
groaning with
rain

a single tiny
figure crosses quickly
into the warm
hands of laughter
coat filled with
themselves

and outside
Autumn is constantly
dying constantly
pushing into
glade and fen

her colorful
mouth and
long thinness
of day.

won't ever a star fall
briefly with light
from where a comes a leaf
(no. not a leaf. a tree)
                                     yes, a tree

   ,
       out of its throat
       that sounds like a girl sounds
       the first time her heartbreaks
       easy
       like rain
       from her eyes

it's dark a cat shifts
springing the sheets
stir you the cat
and a branch outside
the window taps taps
taps the window outside
a branch it's dark the cat
stirs the sheets spring
and it's dark you roll
over and somewhere
a dog is barking

all the body is perhaps.
is some is; is a some

times occasionally girl of breathless apart.
who's a do you think why not in a
bit of sweating skinny.

(Her mouth is-andherhands-sometimes-a God)
of men let's say who cannot
how much they'd like to be between.)

What's more absurd than that? jazz
and it feels like to be: in her lips exploding

the quick lean of a grin through 26 years of loving girls her body who's some in a piece of unapart i'd like to make unun legs smiling and she laughs, "what do you think of that?"

this moment is drunk
and occasionally says
dark things of remembering

about pushed apart legs
in April when it was alive
and something loved it more
than living–cooing even

into its soft ear vaguely
promises of forever and
keeping through death
its hands and lips and feet

     (whoosh)

but goes through the mouth
and nose hot dollops of dreamless
wine occluding speech, taking

tightness and smashing it over
the head with a memory of
a coy poem that tasted like the
sea in your mouth when

it sat on your face and
it was the only time it was ever
–truly–
                

                Alive.

cool this
finger over
scalp(

             the world)

and beneath
the hair the
slick stuff
of love:


F L O W E R S  .    

Where
between
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

it's time


       to sleep



i guess

tomorrow

i'll love you



forever



Christ.

i shall love you
that you have been
after my own heart
as the tatse of the sea:

easy and deep beyond words;

laughing in shoals and
turgid in memory.

you are light
and beyond most things
you are the smooth
incomparable
disaster of 23 years
of screaming girlness.

you are my own,
and my flesh–
you make me.

.
























                                       ­                                          t
                                                               ­                as
                                                              ­               t
                                                               ­                 EE
                                             ­                              a
                                                               ­                 C
                                              ­                         h
                                                               ­  feels as shape
                                                           ­    like shape does:
                                                           ­  as like winter fist;
                                                           a juniper wi' holly kisst
            
                                                                ­         Acurled
                                                         ­                w
                                                               ­               i
                                                ­                    th
                                          ­                                i
                               ­                                              n
                                                               ­ a    curl'd   sphere
                                                          ­                   t
                                                               ­          he
                                                              ­   locke o' love
                                                            ­            an'
                                                 ­                         f
                                      ­                                       u

                                                              ­           r
                                                               ­             l
                                                  ­                      e
                                         ­                                       d
                        ­                                                            fear
­                                  

                                                               ­                        et, un deux du pleure fus

                                                            ­ that hands should hurt
  
                                  where love is new














































.

.                                                                ­                                                                 ­                                                           s
    ­                                                                 ­                                                                 ­                                                     o
                                                               ­                                                                 ­                                                             m
                                                               ­                                                                 ­                                                          e

                                                               ­                                                                 ­                                                                n­
                                                                ­                                                                 ­                                                             i
  ­                                                                 ­                                                                 ­                                                            g
   ­                                                                 ­                                                                 ­                                                       h
        ­                                                                 ­                                                                 ­                                                   t
                                                               ­                                                                 ­                                                     s

that winter kills a flower
(there is a song bird
                ) it  


loves(somewhere in the
darkness ) only

purer only fleeter with
(whose beak snares upon)
snowfingers pressed with              (silence)

white lips around
the thick pistil                                                    (and calls Spring)




                                              To Die

                                           (               )

I've never written a good poem.

waiting for listens to hear,
for her quick feet–a doe
in white skin

thinks it's
pretty to be
choked and

loves
t   o
sw al l o w

in you let
                   colours
                                   sing colours

say colours
                      of thy body
                                            of thy throat

sing and let colours of thy body and thy throat
loose them and become a whole thing more
perfect than human thing only; becoming more
let and let and let
                                 till they are exhausted

till you are spent of them
                                               till rages nothing in thee

let

           and
                          let
                              
                                        and


                                                             let



the colours of thy body and thy throat

where your lips meet

       (unmeet)

     :

there is day ;

there is night    .

"Because nobody really loves anyone.

       We love the idea of the person.

                        The actual person

                                  just gets

                                     in the

                                       wa

                                        y

                                          ."

be without



               d e
f
     i ,    N    


                                              i
   T                     o

             I


                                            n

i loved you so much




























































­
























                                                                   .

I.

do you know?

have you been?

have you been by the slant ways behind the hills there is store and have you
wandered much in it?

have you gone down the little rows and counted them?

have you looked into the tired eyes of weary mothers and fathers?

have you seen in them your mother and your father?

have you kissed with them your thoughts and wondered on the small
mystery of their being?

have you wondered at them looking at you(and what do they see)?

have you thought to reach out and touch them and ask them how they are doing?

have you wanted to look in their eyes and tell them that you know they are tired but there isn't much left to go and you know how hard it is and that you are sorry and that they are as soft and as infinite as your own self?

have you dreamt much?

have you gone out from the store, into the nice mouth of the city, and have you seen the same tired look in the same weary bodies?



II.

where have you been in the Summer?

have you been by the bank of a river?

did you let your toes in it, and did it feel so cool as to rush across them you suddenly want to pull them out?

and how did it feel, the first time you were kissed, and sweaty between the arms, you pushed in even tighter?

have you laughed much?

when was the last time you laughed?

did it feel as if it was the last time?

did you watch your laughter curl away into nothing like a vine of fume from a smoker's mouth?

did you watch it curl away and wonder if you might be lucky enough to laugh tomorrow(and did you wonder how many more days and nights you might be lucky enough to not laugh)?

did you cry after you laughed?

did you look down at your hands and marvel at the intricacies of your bone and flesh?

did you ever hold them up against the night sky and marvel at the tinniness of their work? (have you held them up before your face in a dark room and wondered what it would be like to not see?)




III.

have you struggled much?

do you ache, and are you sore?

do your muscles hurt?

do you feel heavy with obligation?

do you feel tired from living, and with life?

from where does your pain begin, and where does it end?

did it begin in the hands of someone you thought you loved? did it end in the empty stare of someone you thought loved you?

have you hurt anyone?

how did you feel?

did you tell yourself it was ok?

what did you tell yourself?

who were they?

why did you hurt them?


IV.

are you awake?

are you reading this?

will you wake up tomorrow (and every tomorrow until you don't), and will you remember this moment?

will it fade into nothing?

will you recall it suddenly in some still moment?

will you look out the window of your car on your way to work and catch the sliver of some stranger's face in the quick of your mind?

will you wonder on their life, and the sliver of your own face, caught in their mind?

and will you remember?

will you remember?

.























































                                "Let's ****."

what                     thou                                                                      art ?
thou art
                           c
                            
                                o
                            i
                      l
                                     ed                       flowers

.



































                "It's ok. Just breathe. You're going to be alright."




























.

i feel not myself the rain or a trees outside the wind or in the dark a bit (slenderly) where.

i have a vision. of something a little bit infinitely beautiful. inside me a bit.

something, a bit, that's perfect and hurts.

with bruises. or cuts (thousands of them.)

and i will tell it you.

if you want

Χάρων is a nice fellow
by some gate
on the bank of a slow river

in the summer
his mouth
hints at
a sliver of
crisp mint

julep sweating on
the table next to my hand
occasionally a girl
between my lips

and the small body of
the city stretches
'round with
creeping dapples
of caressed heat

(and the slow bank of a long river is
waiting next to some gate i can hear
the boat creaking without weight and
all the darkness of forever at the backs
of my eyes.

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

to fill perhaps;
between which nothing
is but pale.

what do dreams meet flowers  ?
whose
             fair

hands seriously complain with

graves straight upright grey
in tight rows    ,

some effulgent rill of daisy
suddenly the earth breaking

the stiff silence of
FALL

there's some



            (destroying) inside you that

                              

                                  i
                                l   o
                                  v
                                  e

                                  i
                               l
                                  o
                                      v
                                          e

                                 and

                                 i ' m

                                mad

                      to have inside me


                         (destroying)

let's go for a walk i miss you how deeply and beautiful  you are  amongst
such  things  as  sagebrush,  old  mountains  and  the  wincing  silence  of
pierced by bird throats quiet it is so  quiet  inside  you i  want  to  put  my
hands in there i want to put my lips eyes and mouth forever to lay  inside
you one blue spectrum of self in no parts the whole thing and always and
forever between the cold heat of summer your body's mind is a tight song
way over the mountains in a coiling weep of  rain  that  like  rain  touches
every frond of the light forest we are inside of whose body is trees of such
dark wood even i cannot say that i know them

.
















                                                                          





















                                                                                 alone

summer that like into the entering of cold hands open constantly some
crystal breath like dream such as has been dreamt of twisting into cold
figures of unlived bodies

                              : the earth the sun the moon the stars :

I am not myself
nor were I; know a thing
this body's just fantasy
this mind but a dream

quietly mysterious and far away i love you
i love you the big and small unnearness
of your imagined hands i wonder which
on your body's wrists (and the head upon
clothed in shortness) are skinny so nice
and never to be known by my hands you
are so unloud will not ever close and


                         (i will love you always even though you will never know)

know me:
(i am myself amongst you)
i am the root of light;
i am the light where roots dare not tread to pass.

das licht ist

.  .   .   .    .     .       . kinda

kinder

like . like

nacht ist.

like kinda
canis
can
(can-can; you do the?)
canem

                                      edit.

"I tried."

After all, "I love you."

(what more could i do?)

this world alive with night
tinly bruised by
chimes seems to
wither seems to

hold the ready mystery of
life between its hips mouth
full of lips steaming up one
spectral flower of luminous self;

(i wander and suddenly am)

the garden is rough
momentarily i make a fist
of five fingers

somewhere there is a sound
a totally superfluous noise

i yawn and turn through clouds
of just spring air towards the
bashful eclipse of silence

i count my fingers and there is my hand
i mark it and pleasantly ingest the pale
twinkling swaddled of the wide sky;

how many days are there?
how many nights(and a petal
catches in the groove of my palm)?

it's thick
i'm drunk
the night is alive with
world is tinly
bruised by chimes


(And purple easily conquers the horizon

oh death do me,
when i'm
become
just

A

pale jet
(in the night)flowers
between the nimble
lips of darkness

a careening bolt of hot remembrance
all the bodies that my hands have been:
the ease and tremors of their *******.

death, this catch, rest, carry
(the hollow of my stem)
the love each new as old
nor less than any other

that lived within me tightness
that go with me in end.

hello, today sun

       i

like you


                i
              
                     like the ample
                     pleasure
                     of your skin
                     i like it
                     and it likes
                     i

edges just something
from under darkness
where over it wears
a girl in 22 years of
****** by brutal slender
beauty:

words and with lips
mouth around thick
and says,"

I want you to *** on my face
and make me pretty                               ."

"Did I forget dying?"

asked who

hung with livery
of silver youth spun
by rouge turning
of night into day                                    ". Perhaps
                                                                                    "

or because suddenly
remembered summer
was sluiced in body

of hot water around
slim ankles–the opening

of every small vein–
rushing to mix with
motes of dying laughter

the very petite and
fragile model of thy self                        " one day when
                                                                     the incorrigible
                                                                     rough noose of
                                                                     Spring has tightened
                                                                     about every gold
                                                                     trimmed loose laden
                                                                     goosenecked whiskey
                                                                     minute of kiss *******
                                                                     between wide thighs
                                                                     tear tumbling and
                                                                     blubber wonderful
                                                                     life shall with death
                                                                     's vacant fingers make
                                                                      a flower of thy body
                                                                      renewed at the lips
                                                                      of thy grave every
                                                                      morning pearled
                                                                      in dew
                                                                                                         "

i'm
      

             a
  

    
                    little

                             bit


                        love

                           with


                                     you

.




























                                        Pleasure is the church of slaves.





                                          Church is the pleasure of slaves.
































.

is           is
(the way)
your
hurts hurts

me to(Dear apart

          )****(

the clenching of thy fist   )

you hands around the neck  (

'nd release the torrent held at Christ; )


tighter                        tighter
till
breathin'
can't                             (

DEAR, and
in their pearl'd unfurling
crimson run hot of burning

)
)

in your mouth full of me

(
(

at the twaining of my touch;
in the cloak of youth's cloven clutch)

hard spit thick as tongue swallowing.

up ***


down head

.







































"I can be cruel.

But not emotionless–not mindlessly cruel.

With disdain and a true lack of care.

I envy that."



















































.

it feels too heavy with people
and sounds often
in little boxes

, people

little boxes in them

where sounds

are too heavy.

these things of dreaming:

"I will always love thee."

(there is no love:

"I just want to ****–and then die."




                            )

the moon that
i like parting waters
of brief ocean
have kissed

is like
(cheeked more in)
downy vests
of young flesh

( red haired
  firm titted
  laughing. )        a very slender hollow



between deep roots



(where even dying grows)

my whole life i
,to say 1 raw
perfect thing
,t' would trade