Like Wine from Dismembered Springs of Long Ago


There is wisdom in, spring’s root
Buds of this quivering soul
The night is not couple
It is not loving, it’s
A widow with a body of lust
A ballet of squares
On lazy sunday summer evenings
The fumble of friendship
Till the underwear hits the floor
We hold hands, neither
Saying we are alone, or together
The night swoops in
Cut-throat, like always
Black ribbons flutter
Somewhere, between
My heart and my loins
It’s your hair, oval eyes
We share the sighs
There is ruthlessness, in spring’s buds
That clamour after color-gold
Mementos as heavy as the mesmerizing sun
The skin of spring’s unsuspecting vines.

What Breath of Winter Blowing Retards my Spring


My heart is stretched
On climaxes with you
Even the smallest wind
Pulls me tight against your thin memory
And I simply, quiver
For the things you said
They ring down my ears and years
My eyes are blind
With the ecstasy of your picture
My fingers against your skin
It’s perverse, and a sign of bitterness
That all I have now become
Is a reaction to you
My body is limp with grief
For so much burning beneath
The imaginary sun that was your
Calculating feminine grin in my life.