muses seek
words
of rhyming paradigms
intangible variables
unquestionable parables,
the sublime,
just is.

I write this letter to my ******
chaste poisonous version
wondering
if kissing is
confused
with love

I drop to my knees revising
poetically describing
somewhere
above me
transfused
in lust

how could I not love you,
when you wrote of death, while others
courted coy flowers--I know you were not
a comely creature, and if you were Aphrodite,
perhaps you would have been love lathered
on cold Amherst nights, though I
suspect you would not have heard
a fly buzz when you died, for you
would not have been listening
for such a beatific symphony

wanders on the last acre of a hill
with crooked flowing  turns like it tries to share
nourishment with every inch of ****
every root grows toward
on the corner where she turns the last
and heads down to the small waterfall
grows an oak
large as my dad when I was three
stately guards cross creek from turning away
from flowing in circles feeds the evergreens and every **** waiting down stream and all the fish
bristling
at all her banks.

as i turned at the bend
the house showed up

at the gate she stood
smiling at me
her hair fell down on her back
black slightly curled
perfumed oil fragrant
which when she raised her hand to comb
revealed her navel
that like every other day
lusted me to grab her
press her onto me
coalesce
till i would not know
the part that was she
the part that was me.

the house stands freshly painted
there's a woman at the gate
but she is not her.

i sniff the wind for her fragrance.

twenty years is a long time
but why my lust still seeks her

why these hands burn
to grab her just once

do the time we leave behind
and the space
immortal?