Tender fruit, grapevine,
fleshy pulp waiting
inside,

marry me, be my bride.

I just wanted to be
your tugboat captain,
your name engraved
on the hull, my name
enmeshed with your
skull.

Dance around in your tutu,
yes, suspended on one toe,
yes, now slip it off &
crawl into the bath.

I just wanted to be
your tugboat captain,
your skin wrapped
around the mast, your
skeleton draped upon
the shaft.

Look up at me with blue eyes, yes,
open up your pink mouth, yes,
now steer with your feet &
take us to the mainland.

Diaper-smell, sweet rosewater--
out here, far from the sea,
in a church where the sailors
never go,

(the flies buzz on the altar,
they land on the sacrifice,
they feast)

she dances with scarves &
swords, she gyrates &
stares with ceramic eyes.
Lady of the cloth,
pale of skin & dark of
hair, golden choker about
her neck, red letter upon
her breast,

(the flies baptize themselves
against the meager sunlight)

she dances.

Madness?
Nay, gnosis--
remembering how to kiss
the waters, remembering
how to embrace the flames.

She is the goddess,
all-receptive and coagulating
eternally to shift with
our rhythms, our wants,
our needs.

She is as old
as all the dark rivers
that coalesce into the
perfection of the sea.

She is the lady
who opens herself
and ushers us onto
our golden throne,
and urges us to drink
from her ******
chalice.

She was alive in the Way,
and in the Water,
and in the Moon,
and in the Blood
of the Ages that flows
still in the veins of a
hidden world.

She is the perfect wife,
the wise crone,
the impetuous harlot,
ill of temper and all-forgiving.

She's here gathering more of her things.
Keeps asking if I want this and that, and I'm sick
With the flu under a blanket on the sofa

Watching my muse quit, from
Deep inside my sweater hood.
Droplets of fever on my forehead,
And she can't keep from touching my face
Every time she walks by.
I turn my mouth against her palm and
Close my eyes. Knees buckle. She
Whimpers.

Something dying that
Tries to not
Want to
Live.

Ah,
but where are my friends?

I envy those who
sleep beneath the ground
as I toss and turn
beneath my sheets.

The rain coats the windows,
the clear paint on the wooden walls,
sheets of gray steel on the sidewalk,
blank faces in the windows--

the quietude, the quaintness, the
quilt of rain in the forests
and dripping from the roofs.

And where are my friends?

Away, miles away,
far from my wet eyes.