I write in flames of love
unallowed.  You who do
not know the pain fly on
Dove's wings

oblivious to the heat,
the colors, the bent
dreams as I reach

For the sight of you.
Fly away.  I will burn
here in the fires of

my hopeless devotion.
I am red with lost
desire.  Fly to the

land, light on the
water, I so long for,

You.

Caroline Shank

The spoken word
          is a  w i l d  thing,


It                               around,
              leaps
                              

                    ping-pongs from
           tongue           to            cheek


                     knocks down
                                                        teeth

 ­                        on    its    way    

                         out,

            shows up a little
            mangled, rough-
            housed.

I prefer it tame,
locked safely
behind thick
pen-stroke bars
in a prison of
crisp, cream
leaves or
LED screens.

Then, with a
        whip
                 crack it’ll
jump through
hoops, balance
             on
             a
             leg, ride
elephant poems
to a few cheers.

I swear it
ain’t mistreatment;
you see,

words

keep
   their
      meaning
      when
    written
   up
 tight.

Night,
I love you
like a bride
loving her body,
the madman
the desert,
like the horse
loves its shadow,
the sad the lighthearted,
I love you like
a wanderer his ballad,
a poet his dark room,
like the moon.

You talk of evil,
I become incendiary.
The name had power.

Unthinkable. You
fight the lurid details of
chopping off fingers.

How would you write
the opus of human slip
for seeking royalty?