In My Town (2nd edit, expanded)

In my town
and your love-hands
around my neck, points
or tips of
those bone ships
just brushing in,
look
such elegant
and precious violence
was my voice
slipped between the seats
and you,
oh how you made it
home
before your whole body.

The sea shipped and shaped
so many blinking on and off
fluorescent lights
the digital the tangible
missing
a tactile illumination
of the loveliest sort
the presence of song
in the lacking day

no more no more more
I am shouting in every language.
I am every carnal
every icon
you are a spit roasting
late night talk show
jabber wars

Hay Field and Calendar

soon your broken off
piece will walk and talk
the scent
of that day coming
roars through
folded time

compressing swift
toughness, leaded lips
I’ll speak like cotton
and a spun wing
lifts such guilted face

you: a calendar.
my series of boxes edged
a perfect ribbon
and I: that field, a square yes.

but ever-ragged after the hay
is cut and bound, my senses
baled
and stored. Rhythmically
I grow back
toward future, little
more than splintered

stalks twine the sun
in alfalfa roping,
lay like gloss
on the open square
of that month

and whatever piece
on offer
head and hands folded
open, my vast comes
forth to soak
the scent of time.

Portrait Of The Dark In June.

The fingers called swiftly up
each little character

flecks that stand so at attention
with a train whistle’s
sigh.

Marvel then
an imagined page where
fullish moons once stood over
small bodies of lovers

breaking the embraces
of vowels in their throats,

that newly made riot
for writing letters

and the distinct waft
of violet and sea air
murmured

and crashing
on such skins as these.

Unedited, back from the evening barn

gravity in the glass
push or punch
that gulp in mouth
fascination wield your
flowered hands
just over my eyes

just touch me
in my density

grant your gravity
love leave
the parched solstice
or sweated out moon time
just a drop before
beneath calls saying

just touch me
in my density

I, your light bulb
singing the color of wheat
am esophagus
full of fields
the dusk and the horses legs

gulp bloom
your answer left secret
a crest call where I cannot
just write what you want
I say instead
gulp

just touch me in
my density.

Tuesday Observations

coffee: the love act
the clarity of the glasses on the shelf
foggy tears for a lost baby
one patch of dirty sun on the floor,
in it lays a hound
10 am voices on the radio
clatter their worries around the house
gushes of oily money politic
and deep summer
pungent garbage stink already
slinking early under the sink
2 weeks before normal bloom
peonies
in the large blue canning jar
that I love calm me with green
stems against these red walls
and red heart.