pastoral

the grass has bowed its head, bent with regret
and a broken neck, the memory of trees,
and the empty promise of spring in the long hollow of winter.

men and steal, a low frequency prayer of wheels turning away

clouds skid to a stop clogging the sky
with their heaviness, the weight of their words will choke back the dust

there is romance with dirt, a longing for a
place that was, or what it might become




.

aubade

the sunlight hangs suspended in cigarette smoke that
rises in contorted ribbons from crowded ashtrays.
an incandescent bulb glares cruelly, emitting no light, but deepening the shadows
your eyes hide in. I can't remember the color.

everything is worn out even the desperation is old.

shelter, whether made of skin or drywall, is no protection when what is trapped inside
is burned out, crushed and rank. life reduced to wading through the past. all the bottles drained for
the last taste of hope.

windows darken and I think your eyes are closed. breathing still, I let the day go.

there is a certain grace in the silent morning sun that I can almost feel

an easy oblivion

I float on the hydrostatic surface of your skin,
fingers dimpling flesh, ripples
moving along fault lines of nerves. the center coalescing
into a liguid pleasure, mouths greedy for the
wine of communion.

draped in a velvet night, minnows
of electricity arc whispers
across the diminishing distance, a gentle
transcience passes into a fundamental violence.
a growing gravity of need enforces the reality of flesh.
an easy oblivion

surely

If I could dream surely I could choose
to fall into your hands, I'm not
looking for redemption, I have emptied
all those bottles, but there is a breath that remains
that could use some comfort.
carry me to your ocean. let me go, slipping
intoxicated into the moment, lingering in the baptism.
there ain't much of me left to tithe but I
could offer you a prayer