when you were in my arms, I had
no thought, that rare condition sought
by mystics, dervishes and mad
and hungry painters staring off
at other suns' forsaken light
as if it held salvation's keys,
rededicating one more night
to supplication, bended knees.
now time has moved your innocence,
ticked off the things you've never done,
and narrowed down your penitence--
some things are worth the price of fun.
this world is world enough but time
makes your reluctance mortal crime.

These letters bid you come again,
Not just in dreams but in my arms.
Let pleasure find its best way in,
Set off the devil's own alarms.
I'll play the fool, an old one now,
Who yet believes your batting eyes
Outspeak the misdirected vow
That soon enough proved bad disguise.
Long living takes a need,  give leave
I offer my sincere repeats--
My pen and ink, my sacristy,
Another round of wrinkled sheets.
Unless your heart bends otherwise,
Our foolish pleasures soon seem wise.

What if she shows
Again, daughter
Of memory,
Willing,
Insistent,
And I am speechless?

What if she wraps
Her legs
Around my face
And my tongue
Gets caught
In my throat?

What if she lies
To me,
Just slightly
Looking
Over my shoulder,
Or below my eyes?

What if she prefers
Sonnets, to a
Questionable sestina,
Or a good liar
To my reckless
Blurtings?

What if I
Can't take
My time,
Or even begin,
Can't say anything
That even I believe?

What would you do,
If I were you
And nothing
Seemed
To come out right,
Or even clever?

How can I
Sleep, while thinking
She may not return?

so far--
and you may laugh
at the idea,
i wouldn't
blame you--
i've not
found lines
fine enough
said
to bring you
out again
without
one
look back.
forgive me
my
persistence.

The world is God's own concubine,
Naked on this April morning
Cool enough to perk pink buds
Of a hundred billion roses,
Expectant of the yellow bees
Whose needs are close to mine.

Two more mass shootings overnight
Get scant reporting being less
Body count than the one last week
Or the ordinary bad beat.
Our heart goes out so much it's lost
The way back to it's own door.

I drop the beat, it's my own fault--
My mother bought the dimestore books
I wanted more than toys, and read them
Till I knew the words, correcting
Any one misspoke so I've got
Them now--will trade for your kisses.

My great teacher, Guy Davenport
Told of the time he put out Sartre,
On fire in Paris,
Set by his own tobacco pipe
Stuffed back in his jacket pocket
On a park bench.  Imagine that.

My own mistakes overshadow
Yours, and I'm running out of space
To sustain this unlikely conceit.
If verses ever did part lips,
I'd keep my pen in hand all night,
Exhausted lay beside it.

A taste I can't forget what sings
At your command--Oh how I love
The narrow path on which you glide,
The lies that only look like clues,
Discarded wrappers of long dreams
That I have slept through every way.

When paradise gets tedious,
I have it on God's word he'd trade
Eternity to hear your sighs.

We move the world with
Bold assumptions.
Without their breeze,
Would the time pass
Or do any of the things
That it does?

I am known by silence,
Unremarkable, necessary
If anything
Heard
Is recognized,
Is comprehended.

The parting gifts of lovers
Are the faces and the words,
Where I myself have overspoke,
If only for a minute,
While the flash
Of pain confused sin

With redemption,
The collected misunderstanding
Of the childhood need
For a tall and quiet man
Who answered the world
When needed.

So much of this song
And shuffle is giving
A dog a pill it doesn't want.
Experience helps,
And a love of dogs--
An easy reach for the Buddha

And if the universe--
This one--
Was the size of a baseball
Once, it must have come
Hard, like a high
And tight fastball

Out of the hand of Bob Gibson,
The year before
They cut down the mound.

Set here, between the sky & earth
We filled each other's greatest need,
To change this small world casually
To Canaan's land or tacitly
Some semblance of the living word,
A narrow path of flesh and fruit,
Foundation of the universe,
Disguised as just a music show.
The need to move the air tonight,
With screams and pleasant fingerings,
Marks made on pages as the mind
Wants more, wants sin and salvation,
A comfortable bed and a chance
To understand a simple day.