"tween" poems
The first thing I saw early this morning
When I pulled back the light green curtains
Was a hectic blue 'n orange butterfly
Wavering in the fair sun of my garden -
'tween the enclosed well and the laurel tree.
On a sidewalk, red and radiant,
Strutted two maidens together,
A turquoise skirt wore the one,
A chocolate T-shirt the other.
Jubilant they were together,
As the cadence of their laughter
Waved in the air like Tunisian silk.
No harvest did my screen display today,
No mountain range did loom far in the distance;
All that was shown were a laughing sidewalk,
And a quivering sun in a small garden.
(c) LazharBouazzi
Jul 30, 2018
Jul 30, 2018 at 6:57 PM UTC
I wish my face were in between
Your soft delicious thighs.
With your legs locked in ecstacy,
your feet rubbing my back.
Your lips pressed tightly to my lips
Treating me to your snack.
I would lick and tease your ****
I'd kiss and rim your ***
I'd make you *** a dozen times
and enjoy every drop
there's not an inch I wouldn't kiss,
No spot I wouldn't lick.
I wouldn't stop until you're done
and begging for my ***
How I wish my face were tween
your soft delicious thighs.
May 14, 2021
May 14, 2021 at 7:24 AM UTC
Star so high, star so bright
Guide me by your light
Star so proud, of the night
Show me what is right
Star so gold, star so white
Direct now my inner sight
Star so sweet, of my plight
'Tween dusk and dawn, eternal fight
Star so wise, star of might
Help me know what to write
Star so aged, in your height
Reduce the sting of life's harsh bite
Star so far, be my kite
'Til sleep again doth unite
Nov 30, 2014
Nov 30, 2014 at 7:50 AM UTC
The evening breeze sings the forgotten songs
Of ghosts of nymphs 'tween silver birches there.
And beams of moonlight fall on grassy lawns:
A pearly cloak e'erywhere the eye sees fair.
So many gentle dawns took care to kiss
Along the flowered, verdant forest floor.
In this blessed land so filled with matchless bliss,
Upon golden and rose-pink blossoms which it wore.
Every visitor that stumbles here
Stops to see the flowers near,
And stoops to pick some strawberries
In the meadows, for their families.
Jul 20, 2014
Jul 20, 2014 at 1:18 AM UTC
~
where clear blue sky meets water's deep
his sunbeams reach her waves to tease,
to warm her currents, foaming spray;
dawn to dusk when daylight fades,
till only afterglow remains,
an interlude of celestial stage.
he speaks to her on written sky
and in the mournful sea-bird's cry,
wraps sultry ribbons in her tresses,
his fingers linger in caresses,
and in soothing choreography
he gently stirs her ocean's breeze.
he sends her gifts of palm and dates,
wrapped on waves in salty sprays;
watches her with much delight,
he sings to her each eventide,
love songs with the calling gull,
and rocks her tween the gusts and lulls.
wedded at horizon’s edge,
devotion to her he has pledged,
to have forever and to hold,
his comfort to her storm-tossed soul;
his tender kiss on tear-stained cheek,
where clear blue sky meets water's deep.
~
*post script.
when one gazes
into the vastness
of sea and sky,
of what is from
height to depth
an endless blue,
one cannot but think
of eternal devotion,
of the relationship
between two who have
pledged their forever troth!*
*as i wonder from what recesses
this one came, i remember…
our 36th wedding anniversary
is fast approaching...
i’ve been thinking of what to gift her
that will make her cry anew.*
**thank you to Hello Poetry for
the tremendous honor bestowed
with their designation of this poem as the daily
and to all who have expressed their heartfelt
love and appreciation... your message
came through loud and clear...
there can be no denying it,
i am an incredibly blessed man
because of each of you!
thank you, truly,
from the bottom of my heart!**
Aug 18, 2015
Aug 18, 2015 at 4:41 PM UTC
Oh Language, where hast thou hid thyself?
Thy once-bright spires decline to dust.
The calm, well-reasoned flow of wisdom
a bygone memory. I’ll not trust
these tween-to-twenty-something’s prattle;
endless babble of self-absorption
centered in pleasure-maximizing:
narcissistic thought-abortion.
Dude—they’re SO not app’ed for language
used by dad ten years ago.
I’m totally DONE with their, like, verbiage
They’re all: Smartphone Teenage Show.
It’s just, like, TALKING—without words
in language ghettos; texting proud . . .
Their lack of precision offends my brain—
They ought to be ashamed (out loud).
Vygotsky’s vaunted Z.P.D,
and Bakhtin’s heteroglossic crack
along with Roland Barthe’s pet parrot
Are SO like totally talking smack.
Oct 4, 2015
Oct 4, 2015 at 3:00 PM UTC
perhaps a subject already well covered. but I consult no one else,
who can expertly summon the artificial artifacts, no better yet,
art~iN~facts of prior expert~tease, and speak only and wholly
for myself, blatant, and openly undisguised
it is the spilling, the upward sensory explosive detonating,
in a pressured chest, the eagerness
to race, to complete,
find the next line, to define, to refine to get the balance tween
elegance and simplicity, to have the ******** sensory totality
of completely having spun off a piece of me and let it free float as a balloon, that may fly to China or get stuck on a telephone pole
just beyond my front door
=============
^ I write this midst the composition of another poem, wherein
unusually I feel the need to pause, collect my thoughts which are bombarding my atoms internal, causing a new fissionable element,
distinct and unique, my poem…next…
Sep 21, 2025
Sep 21, 2025 at 5:02 AM UTC
A message heart delivered by a musing troubadour
left footprints upon a well weathered rivers’ rocky shoal
the lazy days of the summer’s simmering
ethereal breezes lazily waft astir
Unknown distance ‘tween yonder skies azure;
thoughts of nebulous distances fearlessly ignored to be sure,
connectedness sown and deference’s soar from high above,
yet beyond vast breadth afar the great divide
His brimful heart in hand fulfills passersby thirst
needing love here, hearts on sleeves sincere,
wellspring sensibilities handed out willingly here
voids filled by word of quill …
right now is the known needed time
Glasses half empty suffused to their half full brims;
do unto others you will reap just what ye sow,
a poet beyond the bounds of his own demure,
bearing immense understanding
The quintessential essence of family love
drips from heart like heavens rain,
testifies the heart's purpose for being
A poet’s voice speaks in soul’s timeless tongues
unknown breaths from another understanding realm
too deep for words;
yet the word sayer struggles to see his forest ‘s poetic beauty
for to see beyond the pendant beauty
within its magnificent grandeur
of his own gifted heart’s nurtured trees.
~
The Twist
This poem was not written by me.
It was written almost four years ago,
lying fallow in some passing cloud.
Writ for me by someone effervescently more talented than I,
and one of the poets whose quality of work, and command of our shared language is something to which all of us should aspire.
I post it now as yet another homage to the true author.
For in reading it, never was a poem was far more clearly,
an unwitting self-portrait.
**It was written on August 21st, 2013
by Harlon Rivers**
by Nat Lipstadt
Apr 15, 2017
Apr 15, 2017 at 12:53 PM UTC
He held my hand today in the most delicate way,
as if my fingers resembled flower petals and my
palm reenacted butterfly wings. My hand felt
fragile in his grip, which mimicked my feelings
towards him because his heart did not belong
in the spaces between my touch - his heart
belonged in something as light as air; something
as delicate as cotton. And my heart was tattered
with thorns, assured to shred his into pieces. All
the more treacherous, he traced my fingers be
tween my mittens, and it still felt like fabric -
contrary to your inevitable static. And that is
when I knew that even though he did everything
right, he made it that much worse. As much as he
tried, my frost-coated lips challenged the warmth
in his voice, and it wasn't me he needed. It was I
that needeth not deserve him.
gd
Mar 10, 2014
Mar 10, 2014 at 1:05 AM UTC
again, madness!
one eye tears, why must you return to the old familiar,
the poets prescribed, already so well covered?
why?
must. it is the only shade of my voice that persists,
all else vanity.
these are words handily eye-read, given.
all I need do is “repeat after me” somewhat well,
and fill in the blanks.
<>
he writes me, in another place, to another name, describing himself:
“I'm a charming man with a fragile patience.”
no sir, Muses order me to disagree,
you are a fragile man with a charming patience!
your fragility is a royal hallmark, embedded in every scribing,
this human indentation, always well hidden, on the underside of the wine cup, the base of the candlesticks, the inside of the wedding ring of your tying allegiance to the humbled humanity.
the charming patience is the wait time tween your visions of
the excellence of the common, the exquisites of the small,
the delights of loss and pain translated into mercurial milestones,
poems.
here I cease, for overly long praise is a river too long, no end in sight,
making great and wide just another poem.
<>
But!
he writes me, in another place, to another name, describing himself,
yet again:
*”A thousand poems I don't write, but they get written
in my heart.*”
A thousand!
ours is the patience fragile, your innate screen that filters out
these thousand forbidden unwritten,
needs a cleaning, open the tiny apertures and release them, for we are the humans needing, for the breathing of your fragile charm.
<>
the Muses do thee attend.
their patience neither charming or fragile,
reminding me, they too have a thousand.
a thousand other ears into which to whisper that
imperative imperial command,
and they river no delay...
Aug 29, 2019
Aug 29, 2019 at 11:12 AM UTC
is like no other early morning, man reborn, in the delivery
room of sky blue, the offsetting water deeper bluish hue,
the trim-all-around of the mixed salad greens of the staff's
scrubs as they usher in unity, with no imp-unity, the risks,
while the supervisory sky, disperses cumulus clouds in
peppercorn patterns of white chains, or big wide solitary
brushstrokes on a a ****** canvas, gettin' the feel in the
palm of the heft of brush, the viscosity of the paint, the day's
palette reflecting available colors in order to create a uni~cued
original of what has been painted an uncountable times before,
and before…
tho short weighted, was the sleep of the prior night's restful,
he awakes to the early morning light, the sounds of early
island rouse him, even, arouse him, for the August chill
foretells of the early onset of memory loss of the peculiarities
of this summered simmering, human warming and baking
and natural braking of the slowing of the heart rate, to better
accommodate, nature's hints and hidden reminiscences
of the true purpose of the summer's intervention upon our
collective and unique bottling, our individualized containers,
un~lidded, uncovered, eager for the fuel of sunrays replenish-
ing the length of our lives by the elixir of the summer
it is a chill 63 Fahrenheit at this time of day as we crossover
to the nigh day, from the cooling air conditions of dark,
the occasional helicopter intrudes upon the morning's calm,
the water placid, the geese honking regarding my watchful
rewarding presence, a slew, a bevy, of female vocalists, to
ease this transitory performance unfolding, and though one
feels the existential of his solitary singularity, as he thinks,
nay believes, he is the only one in attendance at this ritualized
emergence, he takes in the cool of, the heat of, the admixture
of both, the clashing integers of each, and he, fully invigorated,
goes silent, for once more, he has uncovered new combinations of
old words to accept and describe a new day's creation, miracle of miraculous, defying the odds of this ventures's success, his own continuance on this sheltered but open all around island implanted tween two tines of land, as if all the surroundings were created just to protect this, wholly holy place…
7:00am
Silver Beach
Shelter Island
Aug 19 2025
Aug 19, 2025
Aug 19, 2025 at 8:00 AM UTC
Professor experienced was he.
Woke up in the morn asking tea.
Hurriedly bathed and brushed.
Towards steely almirah he rushed.
Couldn't decide which pant to wear.
Called wife to decide combing his hair.
Shirts were of different color and hue.
Mother came and chose color blue.
His father decided which tie he'll tie.
While he ate poori and aloo fry.
Couldn't decide which shoes were best.
Daughter chose brown and left the rest.
Couldn't decide 'tween bus and auto.
Son advised from auto he should go.
Entered class room briskly walking;
And taught 'Effective decision making.'
Nov 9, 2014
Nov 9, 2014 at 12:48 PM UTC
In the yellow,
cold light
of the wine-dark
night,
'tween the brand-new mall
and the Roman Site,
he staggered
alone,
drunken
with "Magon"*
and memories.
Vast,
so vast is the night -
vast
as the memory
of an English
prairie,
and an emmer-haired
maiden
he'd walked
to the ferry
on a summery day.
Vast,
so vast
is a night
masquerading
as a want of sight.
© LazharBouazzi
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 12:18 PM UTC
*stars silently
enveloped
turbulent seas,
gingerly dappling
each current,
whence the tides
were stilled
'til they ebbed
'tween streams
of serene
spring waters,
rushing its
banks in
cascades of
tranquil
awed hushes
overflowing
midst
surrender's
quietude*
Jul 12, 2015
Jul 12, 2015 at 11:10 AM UTC
My life was saved the other day
A golden retriever, both dumb and brave.
Country winds howling in their greatest defense
As I waltzed 'tween electric and barbed-wire fence.
He let out a bark, “It's time to turn back!”
Soon followed a powerful THUD and a CRA-A-A-CK.
If not for that old dog running after me,
I would have been stuck under a fallen oak tree.
Mar 16, 2015
Mar 16, 2015 at 8:57 AM UTC
In My Salad Days
Salad Days
**Wikipedia:
Modern use, especially in the United States, refers to a person's heyday when somebody was at the peak of his/her abilities, not necessarily in that person's youth.**
~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Salad
Hints of tints of golden
pear skins,
combine with
ruby'd cranberries
each a face, the cheeks of alcoholic old men,
each wrinkle,
a life's recording.
All are mates for the
marcona almonds
nestling, playing hide n' go seeking
tween silk sheeted leaves of
butter lettuce.
All dressed to the nines,
underneath a top hatted, cravatted, Fred Astaire
marinade.
Coated, bathed, loved,
protected by a vinegar of balsams,
aged grape must, pressed,
a lovely, desirable color,
a brown and bronzed rust,
pressed, then left,
to easy rest for
oh so many years,
like I do, easy resting,
when you feed me in
My Salad Days.
The Days
Though it was a life, decades destructed
Millenniums of de minimus,
Forty plus Seders of exile, of hell,
Marked by promises, whispers, horseradish tears of
Next Year and Jerusalem,
Time steeped in a tradition of patient waiting.
Each year, recorded by a spot of red wine
Purposely Spilled,
By my father on unbleached Passover tablecloth,
To example, to symbolize that
Messiness in life,
Is O.K.
The Salad Days
Salad served with irony generous,
When beard greyed and scraggly,
White speckled, wisps of sea salt,
All my youthful greenery, long wilted.
Yet the words herein writ are my
Afikomen, my just dessert,
My victory song of Hallelujah
Just before we eat, celebrating
My Feast of Ascension, marking a
Delayed Arrival, yet right-on time of
My Salad Days.
It was only when
I was resurrected as two bodies,
A pair of cuffed links coupled,
In My Salad Days,
With the taste of freedom,
A first-born infant survivor,
Was I rebirthed, and to the fore, risen.
When words fell from smiling lips, and
Rain and tears flew upwards, and
Each and every breath was an
Amen.
Aug 15, 2013
Aug 15, 2013 at 1:44 PM UTC
[PART ONE]
xeroxed, RT'd and plagiarized
so many times on so many blogs
tween blogs to republican blogs
to blogs in Russia and
blogs no one ever scrolls though...
original content is prey
but I have a warning for they:
overrated, over-shared
content aggregators beware
the lines you swap can
rot and ware
the World Wide Web
does not care.
[PART TWO]
original content
original contests
original continent
original controversy
original coordination between strangers
original calvary riding their connection into the battlefield of internet memes; creating nothing and sharing everything
[COMMENTARY]
original nothing, nowhere, nobody except facebook "Funny Vidoes!" & "Cool Quotes!". 'Like' pages whose sole originality lies within their own existence but nothing they share. They steal from the rest of the web and re-post what they find for out-of-the-loop troglodytes; often done so in inferior context and with no perspective. The 'refried beans' phenomenon, I call it. I find it fitting because 'refried beans' are a double misnomer. The name comes from 'frijoles refritos' - which means 'well-fried' not 'refried'. They are also never traditionally fried more than once. Yet the name sticks, it gets repeated, it gets re-shared and now that's what they are: refried beans. This phenomenon is why I believe art and all original content eventually become so over-shared and overrated that it's no longer interesting but irritating. These three parts of the poem "Original Content" are separated in abstract authorial presentation. The author has clearly expressed his dislike for the disjunct un-imagination of the internet and presents it as such.
[PART THREE]
original authors losing control of their audiences who believe they are the creators and the artist's art is somewhat shareable
original miscommunication between web 1.0 and web 2.0 reality
original alphabet they use to type on their keyboards
original grammar they learned in school
original money their gov't printed
original content they re-post
original refried beans
original content
orginal contet
ogrinal cotent
ognal ctt
oc
.
Mar 9, 2014
Mar 9, 2014 at 10:01 PM UTC
~for Maya, the Persian Canadian farmer in the dell~
your poetic riddling questions without hesitation re
my claim conceptual
refuting with factoids actuarial experiential derived,
that cows need milkshake making daily by sunrise
nonsense
so you wake me up groggy on a Miami Saturday 6:00am
with a reciprocal poetic to a dashed off to contra my
code of conduct poem-mine;
and all that stumbles through my almost reset rested,
main stem cortex is an a ancient hebrew homily:
on Sabbath Saturday, even the cows sleep late
ok;
just tween us rare passes the day that a glancing phrase doesn’t register a stabbing whine “of me, of mine do sing” and your point counterpoint incision demands inspiration instant re-mission
around 10am when the amiable barn aminals sipping cuppa #3,
and the chicken children want a weekend brunch xtra feeding
are done, in the yard, put out to
pack n' peck n’ play
so that’s an intro to this work
that jumps the line of a
hundreds of other’s poems promised and overdue:
insight inside your crafted wake up slam slap was
pretty **** near the makers mark bourbon of this distillers
bourbon barrels bulbous poem’s bibliothèque that
has an impatient waiting list
of poems waiting anointing
each a personage~poem of that day it was birthed inscribed
this particular one for you,
~
my complexity non-Napoleonic
just humanoid each, here are my leaders from and
into a veining so lovely colored
each poem a waving wheat stalk
before these old tired eyes close to closing hear once more
“of me, of mine do sing”
so I follow all of you by dimming yellow light,
for this is the soil of nutriment rich from where my
words grow taller and the yellow infusion feeds my wheats,
the amber, the red hard and soft, the whites, the durums,
and mon préféré, prairie spring white,
which is my secret nickname for a duality woman,
poet and farmer,
posing riddles
that deserve answers*
maybe
—-
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2503650/little-ole-me-a-riddle-of-sorts/
May 12, 2018
May 12, 2018 at 11:17 AM UTC
did not know her when she was miniskirts and high heels,
before she converted to the one true religion of
poetry & yoga
some stray dog thots raveling in a pack
cross the not-even-6am brain that alternates tween
new day Adam apple crumb crisp and
distracting lascivious Eve ones
I,
would have loved you same back then,
no different than now
I,
write in different styles
under so many pseudonyms,
but it is the same man
I,
who crawls into bed nightly with
great expectations and a list of salutations
to wake you up and commence writing how
I,
love your poetic yoga-toned long legs
snaking between mine
while I imagine them in miniskirts and high heels
which is a long way round of saying
You,
alone, my darling forever young one,
are my
one true religion...
Jul 3, 2017
Jul 3, 2017 at 12:03 PM UTC
Masters of the Universe,
three and some,
nearly four
months tween
me and you
that words
interchanged,
prayers,
asking for the answering job
which was handily God-to-Man
transferred, transfused
tween you and
me
a/k/a
Job...appropriately
you may recall
I was the bloke
who immodestly spoke,
asking any and all
circulating deities,
to tender
their resignations
post-haste,
immediately
for failure to do
the appointed rounds
well enough to this
human's satisfaction
now don't go high hopes expecting
a large confession
about how hard,
ya see it really is
tending the flock be...
nope
I ain't here to beg of you,
take this onerous
from my shoulders!
no, no, capitulation,
my track record
maybe not much better
than what went before,
but you know what I'm about to say,
cause you are perfect
well I still don't like
what satisfies your perfection definition
for my fellow humans,
so I'm keeping this job/Job,
for another few months,
cause I am.
Human
enough to know
that humans keep on trying
and you just gave up
and said let them do what they want
between human to human,
as long as they pay us obeisance
I put sins of
man to fellow man
as my número uno priority
and if the number of prayers diverted
back to you,
in your inbox receiving,
are just the
dues paying kind,
keep'em,
I got more important things to do...
May 3, 2015
May 3, 2015 at 9:44 AM UTC
*Hungered for a taste
of your elixir's essence,
drunken inhalations
of your poetry
a splendiferous whirl
of time & space 'tween
darkly scented moons
and sun's adoration,
blithe starry nights
amidst meditative new
dawn's effervesce,
spirited of the heart,
gleaned in the soul,
yearnings of another
chapter's paradise
universal experiences
etched of hourglass sand,
written upon endlessly
chimerical verses
wildflower gardens drenched
of dandelion's plum wine
swooning under a
hypnotic scripted spell,
intoxicating power
of unchained symphonies
dancing amongst skies'
released euphoria
resonating in a song's
reprised melodies,
breathlessness of delirium's
celestial pauses
in vaporous breezes'
unfurling undulation,
captivated by rhythmic
destiny reverberating in
loins' pleasurable calling
quenched of sacred
offering's quell
transcending earthly
persuasions' rhyme,
let me lick the nectar from
your poesy's insatiable lips,
sweet mercy's healing
captured in rapturous
surrender's reawakening ~*
*Je veux que vous tous,
tu me manques*
Ce que vous manquez de moi?
Jul 4, 2015
Jul 4, 2015 at 12:05 AM UTC
Another time, another place
perhaps then it would make sense
but for now its just too painful
watching you sit upon the fence
The timing was not ours to choose
for surely if it were
You wouldn't have to make a choice
nor I 'tween you and her
But choose I did and you I did
I give to you my all
but there you sit upon the fence
unsure which side to fall
And so I ask you one last time
who your choice is please just say
put us both out of our misery
and let the wounded walk away
Another time, another place
perhaps then it would make sense
perhaps then our paths would never cross
and we would keep our innocence
Jan 21, 2012
Jan 21, 2012 at 12:46 AM UTC
*A spirited moon
'neath furtive glances,
anguished of despair
looked upon hushed
entangled constellations
and heeded a warning,
for he knew well of lavishing
recherché intricacies,
mattered naught how exquisite
nothing lasting could come
of liaisons's effusive grandeur,
'tween clandestine stargazers*
Jul 30, 2015
Jul 30, 2015 at 10:20 AM UTC
in the river of good company
***I dedicate this poem to
Mr. Harlon Rivers,
one of the best poets (here)
and from his good company,
i could drink all day and
never be quenched***
~
Preface
sometime, the heart wants it wants,
denial, temporarily from your vocabulary, excised
sometimes, beauty keelhauls you, gets you
awestruck inspired, then arrogance overcomes
the brilliance of common sense and you go ahead and
mess with perfection despite every sensor flashing
uh oh, duh, oh no, fool on the premises, lockdown needed!
do believe this condition can be found in the medical books
under I, for Inspiration, Incantation, or S for Stupidifacation
my heart wants to write a poem,
cause I was a witness, sitting twenty feet
from the heavenly crime scene,
and every intonation swept my brain into that secret place,
when I heard KD Lang singing "The Valley"^
~~~
in the river of good company
simple sentiment but good god
all I ever wanted and so oft lacked
such was my fate, one I made,
had plenty good words for boon companions,
the occasional touch of a woman rippling waves
cross my face, a love lapping slapping
of concentric pebble rings,
till like most good things
gone good goes bad,
it just happens to evaporate and
you think someday, maybe,
you will walk again in good company
the brain says quit right here
but the heart brooks no damning tantrum of sanity imposition,
for those handful of deepest, not quite six feet under
palpitations of insensible, cutting glimpses of that word I hate so,
memories,
of when
you walked in good company
men women no different - it is that heated aura
tween bodies that confirms that you are once again
a human being, just a being, temporarily
enhanced, elevated, by good company
so go ahead sweet talks ya, that devil id a/k/a desire, says -
one more for the road can't hurt ya,
write that poem -
and perhaps one good man, glory hallelujah, a good woman,
will read it and you can stop weeping you idiot,
do it so you will be back, nuttier but nurtured,
drinking from the river of good company,
mouthing not even dare whispering,
satisfied satiated, loving and loved
~
all reposts greatly and grateful appreciated!
4/2/17 9:24am
Apr 2, 2017
Apr 2, 2017 at 9:27 AM UTC
her milk is him
her eyes are full of good tidings,
washing my body with lavender soap cake,
all the dirt crumbs of a hard life drained
into a circle of holes that carry away carings,
to places where their squeaking can’t be heard
her hands, pillows for a head so sorrow-weighty,
her body, her hips, a bed upon to rest,
and he wonders,
how did he exist before she become his nest,
her hair of grass, now, a coverlet for twigs and strings,
when then he laid his body down for disturbed sleep
her milk is him, a restorative that refreshes his content,
how did, once upon a time, he let existence subtract
his time on earth without any relativity, time unrecognizable,
he was in no one place, pathless, subsidizing nothing,
unable to distinguish tween the straight and the curved
her milk in him, whitens his soul, she calls out,
“*you are my shepherd, my king, my David,
my white marble sculpture of our current existence,
when you drink the white of me, it is I who is fulfilled,
when you write of me, your milk is me*”
May 26, 2019
May 26, 2019 at 4:39 PM UTC