If your face were a barn
You'd have swallows
Coming 'n going out a ya nose.

And your hands:
If they were a bridge
You'd have pigeons
****-walking 'n cooing
In the web's of your skin.

And your hair!
It's already a nest,
Fringe all around
With a crocodile egg topp'n ya up there.

*Exaggerated physical illustration encouraged

I dare to feel,
with searching fingers,
a bifurcated wish
to take the path to you
or the one that leads to me.

I dare to feel,
asking only
from you, my sweet,
your thoughtful understanding.

My naked vulnerability
to your alluring charms,
that I,
that we,
could be washed with rain,
As if lust and sin
Could be so easily entertained.

I dare to feel,
I dare to feel,
the disappointment
I know will come,
will come,
as our bridge decays
with the vanity that is your way.
Or is it MY WAY?

Our times are filled with wonderment!
Today, the news announced
that a same *** couple
would soon be able
to inseminate each other.
No, that's not right.
Please excuse the foolpaux,
My facts are in Eros.
I'll start again,
Today, scientist announced
that they were able
To stem two mice cells
Into a wee one,
Which holds the promise
That some day
Two committed gals, or guys
would be able to have a little bubala.

Arctic air ,
a Canadian export,
not ledgered in any book of trade,
replaced hunger as the body's sole attention.
There will be time for additional Canadian exports:
wheat, canola, eggs, bacon, beans, potatoes...
But the temperature plunge
routed the homeless last night
from their million dollar bridge encampments,
scattering their shanty collective,
into a forced survival march to heated shelters.
"Praise the Lord. Praise the Lord.  
Come in my children.
God loves you."

Languid lapping waves,
Here a mud stuck pier,
The distant hills have failed again
To halt a falling flare.

Though
Their bodies are benched on Church Street,
Their minds are capable
Of startling flight,
Time travel,
Trans Universe travel,
Invisible train travel
They take the blue line -
"All aboard for Valhalla, Inferno, Acadia, Hades,
Bliss, Abandon, Elysium, Pandemonia ..."
They sway clutching the overhead strap,
Eyes glazed, rheumy, vacant, or fiendishly happy,
Transfixed by the scenic whir that no one can see
But them.

The surface level of a liquid,
In a tube or water glass,
Has an illusory crescent zone
Known as the meniscus,
Where light is scattered
In such a way
That it throws the eye off
Just a little,
The way a good poem
Can throw off the coherent mind,
While revealing a deeper truth.