~
Sun drips
on leaves

not the backyard variety
but the trembling kind

the kind
that weld night-time
intermissions to
the roof of the mouth

sonnet-filled
evaporation
reveals
the timely concealment of
a very, weary
inanimate object
at the brink

just enough hip
to be woman

just enough wild
to be frontier
~

shame leaving me a widow in the window
singing the haunting notes of doom
writing in blood with feather plumes
shame convinced me about you
the prince carries broken promises
i thought i could stitch, ditch the rust
the jagged edges continued to cut
fiction, your diction, death by a thousand cuts
in and out of honeymoons, in and out of therapy rooms
beating me down mentally never enough for you
obtrusive, abusive, obtaining the useless
to use it, to ruin, dispensing the fruitless
beat me down, screaming out, enough is enough
call back your hounds
this is not love

~
Another green world
reels them in

unfledged
lovers

they yearn
to be hydro-electric

cascading over
emerald and stone

floating along
with the water hyacinth

where they evaporate
but do not falter

in the naked spring
of continuously November

jumping off
a bridge above ecosystem

a new frontier
under their nose

as souvenir:
pioneers to the fall

and yet all they really
need to remember is

this is where they
first made love
~

I remember when I first saw you
in such a state,
shifting with the direction of light,
viola shaped,
the boudoir door slightly ajar.

Rings exchanged,
veil removed,
the bells had chimed for us,
and then for
ships in safe harbor.

The pitter patter of
surf cascading in
from an open window,
otherwise hushed,
turnt and *****,
dimples showing
whether you smiled or not.

Turnabout was fair play
--azure hues in moonlit pastel
caressing the folds and ties
around midnight’s chemise
--the lure of velveteen
and vast soft canvas of pearl
--areolae circles and quaint triangles
in the thick of things,
gift-wrapped in elegant fur.

Belle-chose, under
the waxing, waning crescent
of dainty omphalos, yawning in chiaroscuro,
red-faced and piqued,
quite shy coming out of the shadows.

The batting of lashes,
the lingering scent of bouquet
--like the seduction of flute song,
I followed and followed
until thoroughly lost within you.