Outstretched is her palm,
forget-me-not pink,
gaily contrasting with her whitish silhouette and
honeyed lips,
so taciturn by nature

Perhaps it is that gently pursed habit that so draws me in,
the scent of promise and the
taste of paradise

She fascinates me
Dancing with men after most men have gone to sleep,
she later waltzes with the moon
until mortar and pestle have been
reduced to
skipping-stones

Her dress celebration,
Her laughter champagne,
Her manner a Sistine rendition,
“Joy Of Man’s Desiring”

When her lips do part,
not a single sweet sound emerges,
but the muted C sharp of a thousand golden sirens,
inspiring mutiny in men everywhere

And if blood is thicker than water,
honey is thicker than blood, so it is honey
which runs through her trickle veins!

Ludicrous? Perhaps. yet, O Lady
the corners of your sweet lips and fair face to me
betray promises of music,
of moondust, of honey, and

of romance, most devastating

Somewhere
in the middle of New York
a white-and-blue,
Pacific island:

...
sitting on itself,
prim and low
as if waiting for someone important, but
not wanting to seem so.

sitting on itself,
as if waiting for someone,
many boats go by
(no, not that one...)
(not that one, either...)

sitting on itself,
small and proper
proper and small...
(**** is wet)

sitting on itself...
I wonder How long
has he been sitting there like that,
won't his
feet be cold?
**** be wet?

The lonely island...

he wishes someone would come and sit beside him

sit close but
not too close, as if
friends.
in the past few lives but,
not in this one (yet)

he wishes someone would come and sit beside him

quietly for a moment
then turn to him and say,
with sparkling Pacific angel eyes
turn to him and say,

"The world needs you, Steve."

And Steve would continue staring off into the distant, blue horizon where
there's not much, save for a
distant, blue horizon
...

but pigeons are not gulls,
gulls are not pigeons.

and the Hudson River
is 315 miles long.

"My name isn't Steve."