When he held me in a thrall of fire,
it was as though red was a shape
and the thumping came
from underground.

Listening to air-born chatter,
I grew warm only in his view
while my other angles cooled
like grass after rain.

Staring into make-believe eyes
as real as my own in a mirror,
I saw he was where I wanted to be
and we were burned away.

Hell is in the removal of sleepy veils.
There’s no view justified for all we shed.
Your wrist, a focal point.
My neck, the nexus of your universe.
Our pulse, something to be hijacked.

Breathe green.
Walk lightly.
Touch deeply without question.

Time means nothing to cycles of meadows.
We all succumb to light.
The gift is in discovery.
The night brings cool release.
I won’t answer to morning dew.

She wove in wind
and I could only watch
as her hair flowed like a swift river
about her face
and her hands knew the fibers’ story
before the finish.

When she started to sing,
it was a low keening meant for ancient stone
before the sacrifice.
She had no questions
as there was no quest better than now.

She shifted in growing dark
but there was no hesitation
in step or purpose
but an awareness of form.

So very small
in my castle
but I can hear Lou singing
about giving it away…
the sound is nearly drowned
in a chest-heaving staccato breath
worthy of vaudeville.
So sure am I
that sun will marry moon
there is little worry
about being swept away by currents;
it’s more a fear of tripping in a tide pool
that has me frozen
in front of the sushi bar.

This worn Samsonite will not be savored
by guérillas in moonlight.
A week of lit ferns
took a pinch of kosher salt
to make a comfortable nest before the break
(in which a tomb-like quiet descended,
calming but for the most irascible eggs).
Carrying on without a handle
as best as I can with nary a hook or pincher,
I decry grey twill and welcome post-rage
somersaults as I add layer upon layer
of raw sugar (in-leaf), begging for
reprieve even as my legs push past
the buckle of freedom,
a little smashed but warm like carnival dirt.