.
Our eyes,
So shy in sun
Want each other,
Yet pretend so strong,
That flesh is ghost shine,
Colour, shadow with sweat,
Body without touch, blood red
As brick in weathers, strained by
Time and fade of photos in old box,

Our eyes see nothing till all is goner,
Youth, beauty, innocence, mists of soul.
.

piqued into a new glowing,
I strain at my bonds
shake the slick ribbon
of doubt
from around my mouth
sit on my hands
to keep from shaking

A storm is gathering within
my center
the hot pink light emanating
from between my thighs
fuchsia slicing through
                         moonlight
I look up
and drink in the milk
of the stars

I am ready.
to break through
time and space
mini-novas flying
'round my head
like spinning angels
iridescent dust,  
rising in slow motion
dragonfly confetti
in my hair
eyes a-light from
aurora borealis

Vulnerable by choice,
I stand my ground
push through rope and burlap
without mercy, for
burns do not matter
                       anymore
explode up and out
my soul's entry parts
wide open
I welcome the universe
letting the growing
inside, taking force
having its way with me
spidery vines twirling through
my ribcage
around my spine
the seeds I have planted
now pushing flowerbursts
through my heart
a bloom
for each beat
reflecting magenta

I had been sitting there
way too long
bound to this chair
my arms pinned harshly
by the wire
now I run with
my private wolf
head back
howling like the
wind,
hair wild
like the untamed
               journey
of my
                  soul

.
In a flower bed
Of rose and thorn,
Scarlet and green,
As we stem into one
Growth under blankets
White with joy, blue
As blood, we pluck
The petals left for us,
We tangle in thickets,
Moisted lips of heaven
Of clover and of daisy,
Milky as the wet stars,
Honeyed in the night
Hive and sumptuous
Joining, like clouds,
Opening above, we
Drench ourselves, cry
In drops, teary rains
That break, inwards,
Eyes, entwining with
Hot limbs unknotted
Till there is the spent
Wonder of skin scent,
Steeps of salt and sea,
Each leftover of touch
An outcast, a grieving.
.

.
I have always known you
Stranger,
In this whirling tavern,
Where life is plasmic.

You speak with sweetest
Nothings,
In my groping, deaf ears,
Where sense is non.

And now we are laying
Hollow,
On this letted, fresh bed,
Without any clues.

Your are plain, beautiful
Stranger,
Your hands ply my soul,
As bees on dry flower.