Enkindled

High on destitution—
Soft, grant me nothing.
Only the forth-coming
seas of silver-topped flowers
give fear in this veneration.
The ground is rich tonight
and sinks in finger-pressed
rosy garlands.
Knuckle-pressed violets—
palm-pressed tulips—
crushing, filling sugar
and dusk's bloom
in the darkness—
Often off-beat,
one after the other.

Benefits of Honey

Catch your breath
in the polyester-
cotton blend
of my shoulder.
Carbon dioxide
nooks itself up
on incoherent
rayon.
Is this lust?
The mingling
exchange of gases—
or is it just
an impolite
mannerism
cheated into
conversation—

Dim Perplexity

The windows ring
with thunder
plundered on the treetops.
Water droplets shake
a nervous path
across the glass
and meet the water-
hoarders
at the crossroads.
A prayer of vivid light.
        I don't seek a lover;
        I need an escape artist.

You simmer on the edge
of reason
A string to lift
your neck into a living position
A hook hook hook
to crush your back
into a spine
A rope brushes pincers
into your wrists
A clean rope
Your clean wrists

Sometimes I write stuff that seems violent without my meaning it to....

He's a keeper

He's a keeper.
But then again,
he is not.
He is not
stretched out on a wooden boat,
looking down between the slats
thinking,
"boy, I wish I could touch
those stars,"
as he brushes his fingers
across the diamonds in the water.

The iced ground is steeped
in syllables and cinders,
boot souls and boot heals. 

Prophet of the Tulips,
you never spoke,
but they still grew.

She breathes out the last of the morning
in the dew on her lips.