I ache for our simple pleasures
For our tired, languid, gestures
For our vested, fruitful, leisure
Though our time and distance often measured
While both our suppressor
Let us never accept lesser
Than our treasured
Than our together

In this dream-scrape
In my minds eye
It's a heartbreak
Without your sigh

We're at the blue house
With the black door
But when you're not here
Sleep is just a chore

Visit tonight, Visit tonight,
Visit tonight, Visit tonight,

Visit tonight, Visit tonight,
Visit tonight, Visit tonight,

Whats the point of lucidity
When it's not you here that's with me

In this dream-scrape
In my minds eye
Here's just pointless
Without your sigh

go white all the treetops.

in wet winter where,
there are there
such things in unskin bare.

(little tips tops tree'd little
hard in pink with a just slit
of a bit right under
the electric stroke furring
riot of terse tightness . )

how about in two tongues of wide
mouths of gagging on a four armed
two backed beast of short ripe and
long withered gushing at the heaves
of glitter and sweat summer?

(I have wanted to be a whole forest of roots so deep in you I can feel your soil in each rich wreathe of slightly sublime sometimes).

how about we go down to the water
i'll write you some ******* poem
about ******* poems i wrote about
******* you next to the water not
wetter than you