everytime i hear this voice,
i’m reminded of you.
the touch, the look, the smile,
all the pain and joy wrapped into a tangled ball
and taken with you when you left.
you were not good for me
yet you were the best thing for me
sweet, bitter, angry, exstatic
never conforming, never defining
always contradicting
always chaotic
always selfish
that’s what i get
that’s what i get
for loving you
the tears that fell,
the smiles that we shared,
so little time spent with you
impacted me for a life time
defined me, molded me, shaped me
i know the pieces fit, but not with me.
never with me.

come this day with me and look upon the earth.

She is a wise
wide at the hip
deep into her
basin where

the folding occlusion
of her bulging lips
contain the
exstatic pearl of life.

she is full:
her thighs
abound over
in supple fat;

her moss is
golden she hangs
a bent beam
on the running
rill from her

cleft bump,
the hillocks
suffused in
grass rollick
and distend
pleasantly.

within where
the waters
part themselves
into blood
and wine.

Her mucous
is secrete:

it flows
en-opaled.

The eyes are for it.
The mouth is for it.
The hands are for it.

it holds wide itself,

(and tight and suffuse
and secretly languorous)

for all who would enter;

and ALL entering is here.


And leaving too
is here:

there is entering and there is exiting here;
one quickly after the other,
or at the same time,
or at neither--
entering and exiting all the same.

She is a worm hung
and in her cellar
is some moist rot;

but do not dismay
for as entering and exiting:
from rotting there is birthing.

And how we are born.

And how we come from her.

And how we come into her.

And are made the same again.