into herohood come the flowersall penning postcards on Sunday afternoonsfull of surprising heretical writingsthat pit piston against stamendawdling or drawing, the architect wondersif his tower of glass can support itselfthat's wrong, he knows it

black dirt rows divide the fava beansjune sun shines between pillars of rockhere are shades and lights laying lines betweenyour idea and my plan for love       talksinto monday and moonstones, nights forswornto rasp

snow tumbles like live coals from a volcanostands still and vibrates while I passgrows tough as sea grass on the dunesblurs like love growing closetrying to draw nearsnowflakes are galaxies on my windowpaneswollen like insects on pollenyour presence

red flowers question the 108 paved thingsmaking up the belly of the pomegranate its fleshand white breast the breast a moonrests on a sedan in a sari of silvergiving more and a kis

behind green shuttersshe's cropped her hair and bared herbehind     he pondersparts, white splashes left untouchedby sun - he adds the color

the last sea where she (a bluish chopin the water) her church is an open house - he asks questionsin meter -   the safest leaves are left behind     branchesvanish in the same purple firewhere here, black morni

in the most obscure streetswhere books pile up fast enough to hold back the rising riverwill you ride the rails so I can ridethrough you, my witch's spiritthe manic dance behind your hobo fireyour tongue is a snow-blind traveleryour fingers pull

stars purr your waiting (the lilies             I catch you with bear north windsinto ocean doors dreams of       hair) in a night tangling of leaves,