Pi~lated by Pontius to an undisclosed location--
we traded presence, as the fruits of labor.
Half-eaten...the ratty dark-lets of our pits--
eyed forms of survival.
You the better for, I the better for...with our
overgrown estates of separation--(spare us the
indignity)...never!
We were made for this, weren't we?
Who got in front of a beam of light first--you or I...
seems like something I would have done--nonetheless,
therefrom the race.
More naked than two millennia of winter...whoa,
aye--glory baby, glory!
Eye contacting eyes...in and out, out and in, sheets
bathed in volumes of water.
We tried to ****** one another in a fit of passion...
so what.
A passion that swore responsibility for whatever it
may, or may not do...so what.
I was the burning mascot of your dormitory for
three and a half years, illegally--sharing a single bed,
cultivating my poetry.
You Adam-ed me...I Eve-ed you--we watched the apple
go red, we both bit--chewing it to the core, mouth to mouth.
As our jaws tired, we noticed the poppies everywhere...
the poppies are everywhere, we cried!
Black, covetous mass, black--sleep bedding sleep, closing
skies--opening grounds.
The poppies are everywhere--we began to horde grace,
deadpan our burial grounds in plain view, something
went amiss.
We played with frames, instead of obliterating the de-vice...
for faces lost in time, adoration.
Where's the reserve to suffer this rich knowledge--everywhere
is your womb, all-seeing and blind!
The poppies are everywhere...I pose upon the ground--
offer tragic gestures, feel me!
No, it all must be exhausted--human genius must be bested,
made the fool--it must be so.
Air after air of convincibility booted--left, right and center stage.
Clay in cold light, natural of its own...that's what we should want
for one another, shouldn't it...how?
We wanting more, as someone we may never know--let alone
one another.
Take that light, and work it to forgiveness, that is possible I
believe...the poppies wink.
Funny thing though...one of the two shall work far less for that
forgiveness, nearly not at all--******* inequity!
No...the schema's perfect--karma's debt, as served, perfect.
Stay in that truth, but the Truth is too big...the poppies are everywhere.
My head wraps around it like a whirling dervish--though no planet
dizzies...this is no matter of intellect but Heart.
The butterfly that's pinned--becomes the pinhead...spare me!
If I am she, and she is me...as one and all, who spares who--from
what and why...the poppies pock affirmatively.

.
Rain dapples in fens of the marshland brooks,
Among the rue hillocks of the sapling woods,

What little peace may fall to drop the shivering
Leaves, rood of the sun, a crop, kestrels quiver

In midair, to keep as they sway into the stations
Of all minions moused who faulter in formation

And bright is birth, when night clothes the day,
As all the mornings long, song of hope, in May.