My head is a bucket filled to
                                    the brim.
It's not that it ends there,
                              it overflows sometimes.
                      I hate when I soak, though
     Drench everything near me.
    It's not that I want to. I really
                                             don't.
But the H2O don't stop, friend.
                     Well, I can't stop it at
                                                  least.
Sorry for getting you wet. Seems
                   like my subconscious
                                  missed you.
Here's a towel,
                   oh no, it's already wet.
      Sorry about that. Looks like they're
                                              all wet.
If you leave me now, you can catch the
                                       last shots of sun.
      Dry in the heat and leave me
                                         to drown.

Don't worry though, I'm fine here.

Two boys
and girls
unclothed each other
simply at a picnic
flush with wine
alongside
sun-flecked trees.

The girls,
easy as the
forest round,
burned,
delicious,
as the boys
eager and nervous
in unequal measure
partly gave up
concealing
their joys
at forgetting
or remembering
in flickers
their bare bodies.

It went on
over nettles
and half-hours
and clambered
trees and
photos taken
almost formally
(on film,
of course).

And boyish lust,
at first sinuous,
a darting tongue,
began to
soften against,
for instance,
the sheer,
unthinkable
texture
of the two
girls carved
now backward
over the bough
of a storm-felled elm.

And there
in the embers
of evening
they learned
to thrill originally
at the vast,
gorgeous
and astonishing
irrelevance
of what
might happen next.

I pray thee sun thou should set,
or take thy leave better yet,
wouldst at last my thirst be gone,
But alas thee linger, and linger on.

There be no flower not yet dead,
no water flows in yonder river bed.
'Tis a heat where nought doth grow,
nor doth thee ever mercy show.

Dry of skin and parch of throat,
a man doth need no overcoat.
Thy rays doth burn mine eyes,
they do not hear mine mercy cries.

If there be a place where chill be found,
'Tis there it be that I be bound,
A place where there be no burning sun,
show it to me, so to it I shall run.

(c) 26th January 2010
with apoligies to all you Shakespeare freaks

I set up a set of windows

They were clear and lovely in panes

And all of the incoming birds coming in

Shouted their incoming names

Smash “I am Peter!”

Smash “I am John!”

Smash “I am Alice, and free!”

And love was the sound

Of hollow bones hitting ground

My new friends piling up at my feet.