Poetry Collection IV

after - rain
the streets have not
yet healed
to any
sealing of fricitives
the air - green
wet gasps of
thaT last breath

before sleep:
trying to stay
foot-touched
heart-held
before the rising
heavy
Earth -








































The moon was not/ forever tragedy

In flowers she would have been three (he slept
one as the sunflower you’ll find her
nestled in the creaking darkness of seeds
hinges of shadows' cloud dust or more and
two an orchid of violet fervor (his face, framed in the hills and wet grasses)
skin the flavor of honey blood find shade
in the spiraling darkness behold
her beauty is the legend of
Pagans the blood they heaved as
ballet grace and the drunken love
water for
purity she is her
own legend as calm
seaborn typhoon
or cool summer grass
midnight you’ll find
three flowers
and as she falls in love the tide shivers
and her love
shepherd of men but only as he
reminds us of our mortality
she passed above
his flock for years
and finally
jammed him to Paradise begging forever
(her father smiled)
his life her breath
in a box
a life no less
a life of love
and grasshopper legs












imagine
frameless girl of pixie breasts
daisy swarmed in brushes of her own nakedness
Barefoot seltzer she is
always summer
the brush of a cloud
(Here we pray
knees in the wet mud - volley
deprizal of our
volvulus words
Struck her where a rape they say jammed
volcanic
his winter into
against
(break)
Hands that could not hold on fumbled
the slippery heating darkness when the greatest
of heroes the volt of war pinned
girls against the Walls of Troy
(You cannot pray for nature/ alone in the mud
She ate the DArk Fruit
struck babbled her eyes could
not maintain the image
and the fruit burst between her
teeth drawing
her lips and
summer’s
whet
limp




















Ice is the second most solid container as of
course you know the stories of
the north young child young
men voyaging writing poems for
ice princesses they dreamt of your
father was such a man my child his
eyes like a fox's they
wore long cloaks and braced
their bodies to the ice's heart its womb their
fires were more for the love of smoke
than the invisibility they ate
they never tasted for
north is quite like a sea a garden of
waves caught fumbling in some crystal moment
of loved hating thought caught at
the moment when everything is packed under
only some men have ever returned the story
is an old one for north during days
of darkness days of sheer sparkle either
stellar or the hope the men planted in the
snow and caves and white like thumbnail corn their
eyes would change color you
see deep shades of red some of
leapordal orange aurorial and the ice
worked like slippery magic

Try not to let the nightmares in my
child





















In April
broken heat
stinks rising from
the tool-wise
pavement up-up
by a rounding deluge
to swallow wind
pregnant as wine
blushing
is this air: In April
sounds drop a
ring for lush
garden green hill scenes
pastel picking bare, no -
this is fog
eyes to be piked on
newly found
hollow nasals
and gritty
smelling glands
night lamps share no
fog above the
breeding April earth
My red tongue is earth-wet
and pelvis, vorpal-dead -
even feet are
sloppy in April