Winter blue swirls through branches,

empty but not brittle.

Wind makes a mark like a love bite on bark;

I tighten my scarf

watching steamy breath spread

across the windowpane,

like inkblots like dragons like icicles

almost ready to give way to hyacinth.

Buses are favorite uncles,

out of date tweed, torn pocket protectors,

faint smell of disinfectant.

Trains are not real.

Subways are born to be porn stars,

yellow moans, pressed flesh,

bad stories that shouldn’t see light of day.

Airplanes are whimsical curses to God.

My feet are medieval,

errant, lost to fairies,

turning at a glimpse of enlightenment.

Let’s take the car.

The moon was a heavy drop of milk

in a creamy dark sky

and I sparkled, breaking free

of my cube, gloriously,

in a riot of color.

Of course, it was dark

so the moon made everything

glow like silver -or dead skin.

–

But oh, how the dance unfolded

beneath my feet! And my heart was full

of night, as night should always be:

forgiving, warm, dark, and open.

I like to bury my mouth

in my scarf so I can hum

with abandon

and whisper awful things

amid an unknowing public.

The apple stem hits my teeth

as I hungrily gnash at the flesh

and I imagine tasting other hands

that handled the apple before I did;

I didn’t bother washing it, just the

almost-acceptable polish-on-the-pants

technique, which leaves all the germs

yet a nice shiny denim glow.

I had the good sense to pull my hair back

or I’d be eating that too.

My curls taste a little like old showgirl,

with a dalliance of muppets.

My kisses taste of golden delicious

and chocolate. With a dash of mania.

I ate through to the seeds.

I look at the seeds, the possibilities,

the knowledge of fruit and skin

and all Eden held before we mucked it up.

I toss the whole core in the trash.

I unwrap another kiss.