1291

Until the Desert knows
That Water grows
His Sands suffice
But let him once suspect
That Caspian Fact
Sahara dies

Utmost is relative—
Have not or Have
Adjacent sums
Enough—the first Abode
On the familiar Road
Galloped in Dreams—

I hope every cigarette you place between your lips knows how lucky it is to be there,
I hope every bottle you grab a hold of falls in love with the warmth of your finger tips; I know I did.

run from the full moon,

race while the sky turns red

and all is falling.



go to the shore, hide

while the world is at war,

and all is falling.



there is light on the

water, can you feel it

while all are falling?



sbm.

air cut clean.

dawn. herons crake

over.

a leaf falls.

friday morning.

sbm.

market day one, it is twice a week,

thursday and saturday, much

the same each day, books

for a donation, queue for the butcher.


waiting, eye the *******, ham and oxtail,

admire  pressed tongue, taste the salt on butter.


all addressed with green stuff

for decoration. the bread lady

will let you hold her goose eggs,

feel the weight of them, stroke the shell.


you do not need to buy them, you can

caress them nicely.


they are soft when born, soft as babies are.


above all stands the wooden man, scrubbed clean

with springy hair and wearing arms that hang

below the sleeve.


he talked to a lady from london,

he said.

sbm.

There we were at the beginning of the world
A forest
redwood
bay laurel
A watercourse chiseled
into the limestone of that ridge
opening outward
to the west and setting sun

We were almost under water
through miles, through layers of green

We sat together
listening
as the alto recorder in my hand
played on its own!

A tune that called
a mahogany-voiced bird
to harmonize
A tune
that gentled the sun into the sea.
A tune
that wove together
every instant
of the days we had yet to live

The penultimate floor
is plunged into darkness
before the woods are.
I’m stroking your shoulders,
distancing cold rain
that’s knocking on windows
is ostensibly crying,
reminds of the distance
we are torn apart.
The ravens are flying
to thousands bits
from frames of the wirings,
like silver cold threads
that are keep with devotion
dividing the glass,
remind of the ocean,
we are torn apart.
I’m looking at walkways
that lead to the Sun
and think of you always.

City lights sparkle,
A concrete jungle on fire,
A stunned full moon.

Sometimes I picture
Your lips.
Not kissing them
Ever so gently.
Not your eyes so perfectly placed
Above them.
Just your lips.
How they curve when you tell me
That I just make you so happy.
How soft they are when you lean in
To tell me you love me.
I try not to think of how those lips
May lie to me.
Or how they will quiver
When you no longer find happiness in me.
Some times I picture your lips,
And how they will feel on her lips
When you tire from mine.