I wonder about your kiss
does it taste of honeyed oranges
summer has turned to fall and
my hair is the color of autumn leaves
for you I’ve a garland of abalone that
I plucked from the banks of the river
Though I have wrapped you in the
warm breeze of my embrace
I fear we will never kiss
still memory loves you
On a mossy hill behind a mock castle
we will read Aristophanes to harems
of nymphs strumming their lyre.
Words transform to birds flitting
hearts of lovers while I contemplate
the perfect angle of your face
breathe in the amber resin of pine trees
that permeate our senses
There in the unruffled pools of your eyes
I will die just a little
You want her to be real
A half smile curve of lips
a glide of a hand through hair
You want to be her clothes
falling as she unfolds to the
sound of heels on a marble floor
her feet have formed the shape of her
shoes and when she arches her back
she soars as high as imagined
wings can fly.
art by Luigi Quarti “fallen angel”
I feel you
at the razor edge of madness
in the fierce break of waves along
the sea line
a half moon fading at dawn
in shifting shadows of endings.
I feel you in the sweet froth
and flow of memory.
In dark eyes that catch mine in
musty corridors of dreams
I see you
in the wild of wolves
the vigil of birds at my midnight window.
I sense you in sacred passages
where like phantoms we are lost.
art by Karol Bak
cover the sky with your hand
the summit of your palm is the moon.
Your fingers are streams of stardust
sweeping across ancient dunes
or the slender branches of willows
gliding through desert sand
soft and sediment.
Your words sting like bees that linger
thawing like ice on your tongue.
The heart of every woman you have
loved lives inside me
the cracking bones of beating wings
resounding against fixed walls
whispers of moments come and gone.
Recall my eyes as time,
you have lived here a thousand years
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
She no longer recalls or feels
Freedom is not a concept
The curve of her back is wired
with filament and straw fills
the space that held a heart
Constructed for crows her limbs
are stripped of flesh
her pupils fixed in the dark.
Her lips are strung with suffering
she no longer speaks because
there are no words that
cut deep enough.
When I found you
I was not searching
beautiful and wild
our lids heavy with desire
we sipped Santiago raindrops
from our cupped tongues.
Tears of salt-rose fell from my eyes
at the hour of your departure and
my heart became a dying bird
it’s wings unfastened and open.
Night on the Island
by Pablo Neruda
I have slept with you
and on waking, your mouth,
come from your dream,
gave me the taste of earth,
of sea water, of seaweed,
of the depths of your life,
and I received your kiss
moistened by the dawn
as if it came to me
from the sea that surrounds us.
By morning I have renamed us when I speak a thousand thrumming wings escape my throat those crimson wounds you have christened with your hands a forgiveness I can believe in I've etched your voice in memory so not to forget the glossy sound of humming wings when you speak Your eyes orbit above me brilliant satellites so that I may dream free of shadows. I've pared us down forgotten what I knew of love and when I try to speak a thousand wings catch at the cache of my throat.