In November I dream of tulips
while your hands open me like a psalm,
you sing me into poems and alabaster sand,
you feed my marrow with harmony,
with you I know how the sky fills the earth
with spaces between
the two of us.

I bought twenty tulips at the Westside Market, ten paper-white ones,
ten blush pink. We bring each other to perfection. We take all we are
with us to that quaking threshold.

how clearly I saw myself
when you brushed a rebellion of hair
to the ranks of God
quaking the mountain on which my
heart lay
in that stranger cold
without you

Hi,
I'm Joe
this guy you don't know
bent back and looking
far below

beneath the bridges built
in stone, in evening shadows
the cold dying asters
are in colors that hold their tongues
till morning

my palm
and pressed within
the secrets
that cut and burn
that run cold like an ache

beneath this starry flame
i make no claims

but you
you know my walk
my lean
and press your hip
along the edge
where we watch
for our ghosts

Grieve not for the loss of me
Also,
do not mourn,
each morn
Just believe,
when I say
't was good

I've lived
and
loved those days
then the wind came
and
did blow me away

Like a candle of sorts
just flickering away

Grieve not for me now
from this moment,
this day
I beseech you,
if you love me
love me,
as ever
the same way

loved

some poetry is dreamy
gliding words slide
winding
warm and enticing

yet a mystery remains
much the same as
not understanding my own dreams

I quite enjoy them anyway

His head is down,
she thinks it's depression,
but his stomach is so bad
there are tears to wipe
along with periodic prostate seepage.

Depressed, yes he is.

He doesn't believe he can work,
how will they live,
how can he ever be of value ...

His head is down
but he rises to privately wipe secretions,
and his watering eyes,
so she thinks he is only depressed.

I am imprisoned.
As you are.
Neither one of us can help it,
destined to be.
I'll try not to forget this unfathomed impossibility.
Still, the scent of white oleander falls not far
from a warm summer's breeze.

And if I see you atop the African elephant
with shotgun in hand, your home full of
trophies, I'll not understand, bwana, the killing
instinct of the hunt is lost on my sex, gathering
is more my inclination, and my hands full of snowflakes
will melt sooner rather than later.

Arms reach 
Tendons stretch
Finger tips clutch
Inches away

Touching the hem of your garment
Plucking a thread
Pulling away from me
Shoving me into the distance

No purchase
No grasp
No hold
No touch

Your smile tantalises,
the tone of your voice entices.
Your sparkling eyes make promises,
you are not willing to keep.

Torture
Agony
Assault
Battering

Slapping my senses
Why is everything I long for 
Out of reach?

Could you say
I fell forward
With caution thoughts,
Yet full weight ahead

Plummeting I hurt,
I lay alone
With wonders plaguing my mind

A what if
A maybe
A touch
A stare
A feeling

Repressible emotions
Are to blame;
I am to blame.

Could you say
The attachment I hold
Is but a self-induced curse,
I know it true

Could you say
I long for those moments
Withering
Abandoned
Exiled