The mist lifts lightly to the sky, I, could not reach. The bedrock that rose from my back pull around me pierce the mindless blue. I envy them for their taste of molten gold, that for me, only a mirage swallowed up in ceaseless movement. In sun-drenched bodies do I taste a morsel. They plunge into my…
What distance grows but longing when once I felt their laughter play on my lips now ring around in the dark no echo to my shrill quakes A fever pitch in the emptiness higher and higher
What’s your favorite word today? Clouds Why? It’s a loopy word, It starts with a ‘C’ that is, a half circle like cloud fluffs yet it sounds more like a loop than ‘circle’ does, Isn’t it?
Hope, Emily, is not a thing with feathers It is dread fluffed up and warm. And when storms come as it must the wings flaying too long swoop low under the pelting rain –crunched, by a speeding locomotive. Where hope is dread is only a feather’s breadth away It doesn’t ask a crumb of me It…
The grass, frenzied and wild as I in the embrace, of the sun, in its zenith– pressed unto the backs of my shoulders, my cheeks aflame, dizzy in its proximity like a lover too close, hair tickling the thighs as I lie on the lawn, white ruffles pushed to the side drenched in the tanginess of crushed…
Am I dreaming you? Or are you dreaming me? If you are dreaming me, Can I send up a request? Tug on the knots in my belly, my heart so the strings swim into the currents that separate us like the legs of a jellyfish— fluid, pulsating watchful But, if it is me dreaming you…
Brontë in the storm
Darkness billows round me cool breeze of the turbulent sky rattles me But, a spell from a distant memory bounds me And so, my feet–entrenched, will not go The tall, bent trees bear down, their leaves shaking— threaten to break canopy The heavens rumble their agreement And so, I cannot will to go I cry…
Does the wind speak of your coming?
I have never seen you in such detail as I have seen you then. The tremble in your eyes, the lips a touch darker at the edges, as you sway to the wind’s whiplash. The lime prairies behind the stifling brick house attest to your presence like a ripple over an excited crowd, jittery in…
Shape of you.
A silver comb with a missing tooth A blue chipped saucer it’s teacup, swept away A single white glove fitted for a right hand A rain sodden diary, pressed memories– faint. Things texturized from the grainy scene by moments of fragility. . .
You wear a white evening gown, hair curled, puffed and pinned to the head. You hum a tune from an old movie, something about a forbidden love, and I watch from your feet, the swish of your free skirts, the anticipation of your heart flutter dancing at your heels. I watch again from your chest…