I am floored.

She teaches me with brown eyes the youth I've forgotten.
Every breath I take in thought of her pulls heavy on my lungs.
I can't stop.
The blankets I lay on turn to flesh and I firmly grasp what I'm able.
Her scent still lingers from our last lay.
Inhaling these moments only intensifies our time spent together.
****** ******* frenzy.
This woman rewrites what I claim of passion.
I know nothing now - she must lead me and I follow.
Her lips secrete the sweetest wine, her tongue uncorks me.
She wants me on cold kitchen counters and wooden floors.
I can't keep count.
We are sinning for the worse, the relationship founded on ***.
Reckless turns us on,
we push and pull and pinch and grab and bite and nibble and lick our way to the next line.
Whatever it takes to get off - she & I must have it all.

These storms of passion return a calm to my chest.
I'm reassured of who I am - why I am.
She has floored me, and I ******* love it.

misty day if she mistakes her
lens for the world. every breath
elects new particles to the surface
of her sun. every now and again
she twitches in sleep and it's like
electric dream time spits seconds
in hours. hours in minutes. minutes
in mine. once in awhile she wakes
to stroke my back or my arm and
if holy moments are all the time, us
together float the illusion of Maya
away to be here. I look in her eyes
and tell her were just God playing
hide-and-seek. she nuzzles my nose
like a sweater cat and speaks. a
multiplicity uncorks the wine and
tells us to dance. I'm dancing. Keep
dancing.

When it is done
you will be dead
so let me tell you
what comes next:

The executioner,
a connoisseur of
wine and dread,
returns to his hole
behind the gallows
and uncorks a bottle
of Châteauneuf-du-Pape,
forgetting all about
his heavy black hood,
which he removes
with a hollow laugh
and leaves hanging
by the unlocked door.

He drinks the bottle down
until all that remains
is a another red stain
on the wooden table,
a circle interlocking
other circles—
Venn diagrams
with nothing
but nothing
in common.

Come morning
he’ll cut your body
loose and listen
to your future:
the sound of wind
threading an
empty noose.

From the way that she looks to the way
that she walks
and how she uncorks a bottle of fizz,
it makes me
suspicious and though her lips look
deliciously perched as they are
on a face
I'm aware is far beyond the word fond,
I shall give Ms a miss and rely on my
ignorance which we all know is bliss
to dream on.

Our daughter is concerned
if she has time
and as long as there is no need to

so I say enthusiastically
'We went to the museum'
.....There I wondered

.....is he thinking about life
.....or the pigeon on the bare branch
.....in the showcase with dry leaves?

.....Is he perhaps dreaming
.....of flying away?
.....He just stood there

.....as stuffed, his skin
.....and lips are so white
.....that I'm afraid

.....to cook in the kitchen
.....while he lays the table
.....clumsily uncorks a bottle

.....on his birthday as if
.....he is doing it for the first time
.....and then falls down

.....without me hearing it
.....a nice death
.....they say

.....that may well be
.....but I already know
.....that I'm not ready for it anyway

'Nice mama, nice to hear
that you are doing well'