She
Is the last phrase
To my
Poetry
Phase

She lists
All my
Ingredients

When I think
Of Love
Before
And
After Death...
I think
Of her, grinning mad
Like Kerouac Prose,
Dancing with the wild blue yonder,
Arms spread,
Soul mingling with Dylan's obscurity;
Patiences perturberness.

I ask my love
What her real name
Should be:
A name you'd never think
Of
In war, but a name
You'd think of
In war.
She dies with me
As we are birthed again
In
Another

Place.

She is my
Half.
I am her
Other.
We walk through the burning fields
Of doubtful fate,
Counting the four leafs,
Praising the stars.

I roll over and kiss
Her
Shoulder.
I dream of her,
Even when
I wish not to.
Talk to the sparrow for
He is
My friend...
He knows how I feel.
When you touch a memory
That was a memory
Before thee', there is nothing to do
But continue on
Doing'.

I reached for her
Over the smoldering rocks
Of
Anger and doubt.
I felt her fingers
Against mine.
I felt her breath
Rise up
My shaken spine.

I felt her.