someone's misplaced a pear.
a sandy green one
there - between the turnips and onions.
the man in the striped red shirt
he's slapping price marks on braeburns...

your lips were hallowed ground
in aisle seven at the supermarket.
underground sundays in your arms
watching t.v. all day.

like a fog that drowns
first intentions wandering burrs
clipping from sleeve to sleeve,
my fool flesh tried to get somewhere
our kissing touch migrated as
if we'd never even heard of the ground -

watching warped window streaks
of scattered april rainfall,
a streetlight shadow symphony
on your bedroom wall;
my rumpled exhortations constantly
shocking the angel in you.

i didn't want to stay if you left
i'd be nothing to you,
a gone face, fallen like embers
voyaged away like the waning pitch
of a siren in the nighttime,
like i never existed at all

can you tell me that i don't
have a hole in my heart...
the world is home to billions of streetlights;
it has more to do with windows
than with the pleasures of flesh.
just to look, (is often enough).