The room is stifling with
The sad cafe tends to its ghosts
but we are more than grateful to forget.
There are no secrets among these
desolate lovers disfigured by life.
We inhale circlets of smoke
that linger in the air and taste lips
The night arches its back
to drunken angels so we dance
beneath stars that meet us halfway.
“Knowing” by Andrew Atroshenko
In this dream I turn to you
light my cigarette from the glowing
tip of yours.
I propose we fly away.
Your dark eyes whip my mind
into arousal and your elegant hand
on my thigh turns me soft inside.
Your breathing is a sigh against
my ear that whispers my hair
and crimson lips so near devours
Against waves of longing and desire
dreams are always what it could
Suddenly hares chase foxes
and Roebucks hunt hunters and
to shield me from the terror you
hold me within bleak arms.
We are light breathing
sweet molecules into the night
It would be easy now to fly.
From the window
as quiet as as a river I can watch
the moon shiver in the breeze
through the fronds of palm trees.
Hibiscus wave like children
their mouths move silently,
hands of garland reach out to
I am grateful for the sweet
drape of your eyes that like
fluttering wings of birds lift
the shawl of darkness where in
the light prismatic butterflies
breach their chrysalis and
vanish in the arching sky.
These are the riches
the golden sunlight passing through us.
When I am near you I become a glimmering
chimera of mirrors tempered of shell and sand
a cascading niagara plunging into deep pools of desire
where I am so afraid to fall.
Powerless to hold back I immerse in the irides of your eyes
as speechless as tongueless birds.
The current of tides tangles you in the succulent
mirage of my eyelashes. You and I are more than
the wispy smoke of clouds or an epoch of bones
but the breathing air of lovers rushing through veins
as gentle or fierce as the press of your thigh on mine.
There are times when I can see myself
through your eyes.
My pale face so in love
aching for the caress of a flaxen
haired boy racing through rolling fields.
Suddenly serious your adventurous eyes
sent yearning shivers through me.
I longed for your touch anytime and
kissed you opened mouth without
I adored your mock anger when you
chased me and the awkward way
you looked down at your hands.
Soon Autumn threw its shadow on
sprouting wheat, smooth and wet.
Now, I listen to the soft whisper
of your breathing through a half
closed door and know there are
different kinds of love
wild, ruthless, and unafraid.
Remember last summer ?
We were obsessed with
the sound of far off thunder
close enough to subdue
the mad-paced hours.
like a strike of lightning
the odor of combustion
ready to ignite.
that made us come alive.
Our hearts caught between
whale song and sigh,
with intermittent quiet,
sporadic as a summer storm.
Leonid Afremov “Rains Rustle”
Remember the cabin among the trees hidden like rabbits resting in nests of autumn leaves? Beside the window that looks out on the river there is a writer’s desk with printer’s ink and fresh flowers kissed by the sun in the sill.
Do you recall the sweet days we shared among redwoods that spoke to us? The memory evokes such nostalgia for that ache, that fierce crushing devotion. I left a heart shaped basket of seeds in the arch of a tree for the birds to scatter, etched our names on its bark. I will always remember you and the cabin by the river, the sultry nights I would dance fit you, sheer layers floating to the herringbone floor.
I am touched
by a storm
the tongue of a
fire that burns
A tide crashing
into millions of
becoming the sun.
My heart is ripe
like summer fruit
sweet juices flushing
There is a storm circling
the pit of my stomach rising
to ache in my throat.
Steve Hanks art
Insects large and small flit
through the lemony filter of dense canopies.
In hushed whispers we point to a clearing
where a roe fawn nibbles at pine needles.
Clouds soft as cotton brush the crowns of ancient trees
below a hanging mist clings to blonde foothills.
You pluck a marigold to tuck behind my ear
your golden hand print left on my thigh.
I wind a garland of leaves around your wrist
close enough to run my fingers through your hair
carry your scent back home with me.
Deborah Gryka “Turtle Woods”