my love, you wear silence like a coat
and i am left drifting like a far-out wave.
the wind tangles leaf and sky.
winter is barely noticed, the moon
is a ghost of forgotten flowers where
the night sings to the starry waters,
sings of our love. everything is sailing
like a ship in a bottle, a kaleidoscope  
of brightness, gothic hill and wildflower
ruin, flowing like a silvery stream.
do you dream of me? do you burn when
the night wraps you in her cloak and the moon
unwinds the waters of the seas?
do you dream of me?

an alluring moon bathes in the
generosity of the enveloping sky
Stars twirl into nothingness
as I lay a blind eye to the wind
bulbs burst with possibilities
on ocean's rim
the trickling down of rain
swells uneven earth
Day succumbs to darkness and
lays down forthright

listen—
this is just the way it is

I see your headlights in the drive-thru
last winter
in the camera lens tonight

this is not personal, you said
you cried, thinking it was dark enough
voice steady (if you focused on the radio)
not personal, but permanent
and I was in no position to argue

lately, I haven’t had much that I’ve ached to tell you
—that feels a little personal—
and I only remember when certain angles of light
hit me like a freight train
after the sun goes down

Lipstick red, your massive hips
bulge above supple feet.
My finger gently tracing
their obscene curve,
I palpitate at the
pulsing
power
perched
between those thick thighs.
I eagerly enter
you.
You
firmly cup my tensing buttocks.
My foot plunges into your pedal
and we erupt together.
Are we coming?
Or going?

Unlike Caeser, I fear not the Ides of March.
Nay! My curse, it comes the day before.
On this dark day my mind is terrorized,
with each dull digit that I now memorize.
Evil ratio!
Upon Your endless path I cannot gain.
Dreadful day!
Thou doest mock me in my mortal pain.
Irrationality!
Surely this, the price that I do pay.
Yielding now,
I wave white,
before this wicked wretch,
we call
Pi Day.

This fresh coat of paint
You brushed thick across the leaves,
when there’s wind, it drips.

The poetic word is potent.
Like one hundred and seven proof
bourbon,
it makes me drunk.
Plenty of pages of prose
are distilled in
a single
stanza.
It is irresistible as
I swirl it in my mouth.
Sniff it.
Taste it.
Breathe it in.
I hold it up to the light
to peer into its soul.
With voracious appetite,
I invert its glass until
the
last
drip
slides
slowly
south
onto my silver
tongue.