My hands were wrung
not long ago, in fact the other day
they grasped towards each other
with a frightening pulse
felt through veins that stretch
across tendons as though they were longing
for escape from beneath - as a millipede would dig
out from the earth
painfully giving resurgence
to the fact that he was more alone there,
that I am alone
with only my hands
to feel what is not here.

She is a summer and a winter person,
a mountain and a desert person.
The arches of her upper lip come to points
above a bulge that she ***** into her mouth
and picks at with her lower teeth.
A girl once told her she had a perfect mouth.
A boy once told her that her *******
were perfect teardrops.
They would lay together as one.
He would kiss her stomach
while sliding his hand under her lower back.
She would weave her hands into his hair
and pull their faces together
not to kiss but to stare
into his pale blue eyes.
She has green eyes, dark hair, and pale skin.
He was similar only in skin.
He was fall and spring,
forest and river.
Together they could have spanned the seasons.
She loved him like the flower loves the soil.
His eyes could see forever
and she would watch their distant gaze
and feel blind.
The soil does not need the flower.

I put my hands into the sea.
The water licks my face.
The waves move in on me.

I turn back to the sands
so I can see the moon light glow
reflected in these shatters
of broken bottles who lay so low.

The days are getting longer.
The nights are shorter too.
These bottles keep on breaking
and I keep on seeing you

reflected in these shatters,
on this shore, under this glow.
It brings me to my knees
and you're in it - here - I know.

I want to say your name.
I want to touch your skin.
It seems just all too late now,
you know how long it's been.

I can feel you in the wind.
I swear I've seen you in the showers
that will come early in the morning
and kiss the yawning flowers.

I've knelt here much too long,
my eyes are growing tired.
I feel the water on my heels
I think the tides - they have conspired.

I think about you now
the deeper in I wade,
the way I felt around you
and how we had it made.

Once I come back up,
once the sun shines in my eyes
I take a deeper breath
and let you go into the skies.

I want to conquer love.
I want to take it down.
Down to the river to pray -
Pray for the race of men.
In a masculine society where do I stand
effeminate as such - no two flowers touch
except at stem, and intertwining roots
lay under earth with reason.

Reason me to believe there is no question.
For questioning the authority of men
leads down no roads.
Roads are not the only paths to take.
Here, a place without horizons,
lit by amber, shadows fall
elongated and still against the ground.
There are no roads here.

Here, thoughts echo and in their nature
rebound off these cliff walls.
Here, you are the only one standing,
enduring your own constant bombardment.
Stop thinking - to think is to detest the calm.
Calm is the sublime.
The constant quiet of nothingness.

Nothingness is a fearful expanse.

We stood in the field across the road from my house.
I was wearing a t-shirt for the first time in months.
Your stare was as unceasing as the sun's.

My lips trembled slightly as I tried to form words.
Your hand rested gently on my hip.
I swung at the wet grass with my foot.

"I sold you and you sold me."

I long for the shade of a chestnut tree and look up.
You pull me closer.
My right foot wedges in between your shoes.

You tell me I look sad.
A tear rolls out from behind my sunglasses.
I am too slow to catch it.

I feel the heat of the sun on my back.
It's pushing me towards you.
I wrap my arms around your neck and hang there.

"I sold you and you sold me."

I feel invisible in this field.
I wish it could just be us.
I want nothing but this.

There is a reason we are here.
Our parents were wiser than they knew.
In my name I have found the wind.

In your name I have found the rock I cannot move.
I have found a steady place to balance.
I have found warmth.

But these reasons are not enough.
We turn and walk back to the road.
Your hand sweeps across my back and stops.

It's not ecstasy that I'm looking for -
it's not even happiness -
it's the moment
when standing in a field
you see the grass move before
the wind politely brushes
the hair from your forehead,
when the seeming hundreds of birds
hiding in the snap peas suddenly quiet,
only to burst into song and chatter
once you have passed them by,
when you come upon a clearing
after following a tight trail through tall trees,
when you find the first flower of spring,
when a hawk circles above,
when the clouds move low and fast
and reveal the perfectly clear night sky,
and the moonlight touches your nose.
It's the moment when it is 3 a.m.
and the sun is rising
and I've already hiked six miles
and I'm sitting near the ridge
and I'm listening
and I hear a howl down the valley
and I close my eyes and turn my head
and my eyes open to see this wolf,
and we both pant then freeze.
It's the moment
when you try to breathe quieter,
when you stare into the wolf's eye
and he turns to walk away.

Tonight I fear a painful notion glows
in summer light though dusk lingers so near.
We laid in wait for questions I suppose -
I stood and took quite swiftly towards the pier -
looked in and saw the setting sun that fades
at every ending day like clockwork till
the night does strike and down we fall like blades
of grass which wave in wind then do lay still
to break the back of farmers at the field
but heal a heart - a girl with bouquet killed.
A man who cannot see, his eyes unhealed -
his sockets burned by light, but water chilled -
that face reflecting back at me today,
and in this summer's eve I cannot play.