desire, a mongrel,
perpetually astray
licking everything,
thrown its way.
sometimes famished,
collapsing into a swoon!

The truth lies in the dirt
Feathers sifting brown flour
Sunlight prisms dancing
And I let you

New green, her ritual comforts
While I lie contorted beneath you
The scent of wet soil
And I let you

The ****** bud reclaims her power
Rhythmic earth turn, turn
Spring, thy mirror of veracity
And I let you

Blinded by a heart grown
Veiled in misty mornings
The great lie, just out of sight
And I let you

Out of a hard rain now
No death by my hand
Nature continues her march
And I let you
Go

this daily death
and nightly rebirth
these swelling buds
and falling leaves
this piling snow
and torrential flow

this in- and ex- halation

this building warmth
and inertia of cold
this body grows
and then it grows old
this rhythm of life
and imminent death

pervades everything i see
so, could it be
that, perhaps, this rhythm is me

Wednesday night drunk,
the sun lays so still
in its gray sarcophagus;
the sandy mid-rise
across the way
spits yellow blandings
into dead clouds;
the Aberlour bottle
raking its way
towards recycling.

O, that casual dismissal,
how it decimates -
"Thanks, Ev. You too."
But what do I know
of the little surgeries
of her evening?  
More whisky spills -
the sun's canopic heart?
I drank it,
it's gone.