My love must be a kite run
Tight wrung ribbons
Separate the knots in my knees
Knots from wine
She moves about the kitchen flicking flames off candles
That wine at the table at which I sit is a good wine

I think of the troubles of writing at a screen
I'll consider the problem of writing in a notebook
When I find that **** notebook.

Speaking honestly to a tray of napkins
They can't help the Merlot that's polishing the table
Dark wood is well stained. She asks if I
Remember the small room wine fests in my dorm
My sheets came home from college dotted purple
I remember.

Lurking in the shadows
These thoughts free themselves
Releasing the inescapable passion of a zealot unheard for centuries
Now, in this miniature pressing of keys a wire company will see every idea that spills out of me
The pigs
I hope they come to my door wearing black.

Honey, your hot, don't get mad,
She appears out of the smells
I'm drunk, not mad, I'm spilling the Merlot
We have more, dear.

I love that woman right there and none other

Lets jump out the window and roll through the grass
Come on child, cant you see we got cliffs to catch.  
**** on up your hind legs and lets get to moving.
Don't you know its half past seven and the turn tables grooving

I like that, she says, reminds me of the pictures of you as a boy

I turn to thank her but I can't find her
She dissolves into the smells of the kitchen
And plus, I'm gone.

What is human nature unless covered by an aesthetic, who am I, if not an imposer?
What poet is this, if not the first?

A line of a poem is a poem in itself
I'll regret this next week

But, sand over rock will polish something smooth
In a thousand years, no regret
A mesa stands grounded
In an ocean of wind

Herring cries
Through the morning leaves
What makes them mourning?
They're just a different shade green.

I like that too, she says to me

An Ibis will wind through a pond
But is it just his wake we see, or can
We really spot that bird?