With all your expert mouth and
tongue of many tribes you
call me to the dance floor
of your poetry.

I ear your accent, I tongue the
vowels of your incredible name

which blossoms every morning.
I bed to your brown eyes when
touch begs rest from incessant
breathing.

You are wheat chaff and I am
the wind which blows over the dead dreams of aged memory.

I understand now the satiety
of your love.  The desert of
uncertainty where the bridge
of your wanderings
crossed my month
of ecstasy.

You are the list I take to
mind's far places when
thoughts of you are

exhausted.


Caroline Shank

Patches over patches,
That’s what I’m doing,
To this wound you give,

Drowning in this feeling,
Wish this is how deep our love is.

am i manipulative,

or pieces of alcoholism,

of bottles and losing lovers,

leaving loved ones on a whim,

winning in whirlwinds of loss,

dreams of stability and sure,

but your eyes are where I'm lured,

leaving you on a whim,

cold and cautious and scared.