what does it say about me
that i am comforted by
the Burning Man?
his skin chars & peels
tendons beneath earnestly oozing
anxiously trying to soothe the flames
kindled by papery wishes,
wooden expressions, angry inflections.
his ashen tears
stolen away by a wind's tired sigh
flutter down to a ground somewhere.
the fire will purify him of his
infections, the dust will return
to the dust, but the man who
touches my forehead so lightly, steams
the cold sweat from my brow,
calms my terrored shuddering...
i am losing him smoke ring by smoke ring.......


.......what should i think of him
that he is addicted to loving
the Dripping Woman?
my breathing is wet and laboured,
there is less, less room for
air when lungs are naive to the
furtive ripples overtaking them:
some people die by the drop.
.
.
.
.
.
.
clove cigarettes smell most
like him. we lie together &
stare at the cherry blossoms
dropping to tuck us into our bed.