the stars tonight, an anchor holding meto light and sleeping eyes      on insects’ songthe night air floats the distant salt of seaa lilt, your verse i’ve lived all summerlong place your nomadic hands on rivers ofmy mornings      cup

(a tongue-in-cheek fairy tale)Low down in meadowlands lies Genevieve,her star-strewn hair in artful dissarray.With bee-stung lips, a rose pinned to her sleeve,she sets a trap to spirit men awayfrom local lasses, ladies set to playtin whistles for the

a green dress embroidered in gold nothing under, heat crawls up fromthe sidewalk       makes me lose my uncomfortable shoes while you roostsix floors up pressing poems into our mattressi'll do rubbings on the indentationslike i rub gravestones

the littlest toes            creators of natural selection      construct (even while protesting)                                 the corns needed to last in a witch’s narrow slippers        

to listen to cosmic rays,the peeping chimney sweep –permanence succumbs to chaoswhile I stagger to adore, if not kindlythen wetly, a beard and salty bicepsJohn 21:3 Simon Peter saith unto them, I go a fishingfor the bombshell of amiabilityfor the c

everywhere concerned nurseries refusethe river                 and the poetryanimation and embryos uncork the balanceof the gangplank, tinsel sparkingbetween my toesoccasional nothings ticklemy tongue, the deep steam of riverboatstwit