ask your blood
your limbs, your breathing feet
what Poetry is -
a phylogenetic anomaly
in light’s discontinuity

or just…
the strange yearning of hematopoiesis

ask the silence in your lungs
the bursting DNA, reinterpreted
how it allures memory inside your bones
how it treads conventions of sleep
with the weight of a sigh

if you ask me
what Poetry is
I’d say: breath calligraphy
a winged dream of depth
on enchanted retina
the bitter-sweet art of airy harmony

ask your hands
what Poetry is
perhaps they’ll take a moment
to bloom

We must say
how we feel,
or sew are
mouths closed
to the truth....

The self-contained sunlight trickled
through her apricot skin, the dream-like sense
of suspension receded into the driftwood calm
as the birds glued to the wind chime
danced their static waltz. The closeness of
her body in the hotel room's single shared bed
focused like the uncasing of glasses from
a cotton shirt's breast pocket. The entire
room dulled as her hair fell away from
her eyes still closed but staring directly
into his neck, innocence beading her skin
like sunlight through a colander, her relaxed
breath fomenting a juvenile refinement, like
drinking cranberry juice concentrate from
a crystal champagne glass. His eyes filled
with admiration, not necessarily towards
her but the unconscious movement of her
cheek nestling against his shoulder.