Poems and Lovelorn Thoughts, Volume XII








                  Only to be







The Past

Take it and tell me

How it feels.

Trace the irregular knobs of its spindly vertabrae,

Prick yourself on its quills and watch

The Quivering dome of the bead of blood,

Blood like a bead on your fingertip.

Put your tongue to its

Chocolate curves, test its dryness,

Texture, acidity -- how long does its flavor

Last before it dies? Does it stick

To the roof of your mouth, get lodged in

Your teeth? Take it up,

Measure its weight in your palm,

Eyeball it --

Do you see a rose, a fetus,

a death, a psalm

A mint on your pillow,

Or a globe

Cracked through to its core

Magmatic, bare?

The Laurel Grove

The stars spill out, drops of

Blue milk on fingertips,

Slow lustrous silken streams

Dripping chemical pearl on the

Ferns and fens. Like drops of salt,

They ooze into the grain of

Trees, alive and fizzing;

They bubble and foam in hoards

When they touch the ground.

Every pinprick drop of crystallized blood

Of floral snot of grief of tea of liquid gem

Shapes a Fortress of Leaves

Above my head,

A canopy of Victory in

A forest all my own.

Now the vanilla moss sprouts where I tread,

Lush and viridescent as rivers

And the Light only falls

Where I tell it to,

Sonorous and free.