Sometime in Winter

Seafoam banquette,

The plush, the lulling nap,

The velvet cove we were tucked in,

Bolstered with bronzed silk brocade,

Buttoned in pearly nacre.

Chiming sweet liquid crystal glasses.

Lush with thick white Riesling

Or floral lilts of Moscato

And melting flesh of pears.

And you, in plum~~

Lovely.

How it brought out that

Pale blue,

The melancholy winter field

Of your eyes.

And your jacket,

The light grey cashmere,

That brushed,

That playfully

Kittened up,

Begging to be touched.

As ivory notes

Shushed off

Slick sloped

Charming

Cambers.

Felted hammers fell.

A caressing tumble

thrummed

in a White Spruce

Hollow.

We dined on Artic Char,

Blackened and grilled crisp,

Yielding all sweet beneath,

Plump falling white flakes.

And the snow came down,

Cathredaled through windows.

Soft bright lights.

One 

&

then

Another.

Endlessly falling,

Silently into this night.

All edges softened,

Drifted and drifting,

Mysterious and jubilant.

A new world

Blanketed down

For us alone.

2:15 AM

In the night of cold boughs

quietly snapping,

the freight rolls through,

trumbling.

Wheels on seams

trouble the lonely,

rusty veined rows:

Chelank, chelank.

Threaded over dead roads,

stilled by old snow,

the empty cars still chatter:

Begin again, Begin again, Begin again.

Wordlessly the horn wails,

high and long

as it crosses under the wan curve

of the new moon,

spooning a vast

collapsing

into my unseeing sigh.

As I Gather Love Around

Macaroons & Chocolates in the dark corners

slowly blooming.  Our Blessed Lady

fingered full up and laced,

a pastel littering of petals:

What fun at last!   Hidden from sight,

your breasts are perfect on the other side.

I could barely breathe

To come put pins in your hand.

And I still have them,

those precious days of gum weed,

mad with mosquitoes and bees.

I cling to your voice, a tearing scream

so strangely illumined, far away, smiling,

curls falling forward as you work the Rosary

and the world explodes giving out kisses,

gently washing down where you left me

on your satin knee of shiny cream.

I pushed it and a big hole opened up:

A paper bird~~A skyless lark,

    Listening.

I have cried never more brilliant,

barely melting on your tongue.

I talked myself out of it.

The worry in the back of my mind

was like candy to me.

How thrilling and exhausting it all was:

a few cattails and Canada geese,

piles of cassette tapes,

tomatoes and cilantro and lots

of fresh cracked pepper.

That’s about it.

Threatening rain

Sustain    Sustain

Go out and come back

With a song again.

Tell me, what is it?

The gift floods rivers unstaunched,

blushing and random.   How so like a woman~~

plush violent veils, a blessing and comfort to me

so far from home and respect.

Who ruled me?

Metonymy, or the etymology

of oleander, hibiscus and jasmine

with Moroccan tea on the veranda,

putting broken glass in my shoe and Chopin.

Upstairs to linen as another nocturne tender

was red and wrecked

Quietly        Quietly

Carelessly torn around the corner,

slowly exhaling sweet juice,

looping chains,

pin-ups, rose-hips . . . .

Just beginning      Endlessly enchanting

A dirty raw mess

of a girl.

The water goes shallow, drenching slow.

Wings and legs         The morning so full.

You hold for me a savarin pillow,

sweet citrus and azure pools

melting into each other.

This vein of lead stretching out,

this low growing sea foam banquette,

shushes off there at the lake’s edge.

We will cross over to the island--places have been set.

Loveland is so lovely

between your fingers and between your thighs.

I hold close and kiss, hushing over until night.

Just as I expected, Hansel & Gretel

soon swallowed my sugar, my sweet.

And I loved you for hours through windows,

fragile and dear.

Yet, anything I could ask for

could not hurt the glaziery.

I could feel your smile:  wave washed warmth.

Tell me again that you love me,

palmed and drowned,

intoxicated,

an ant over a peony.

I won’t cry,

blessed by finches

tangled through my hair,

cloistered in blush burgundy silk,

as I gather love around.

Inaccessable Areas Exist

An abalone in a pail,

Large and lonely and muted,

Sits in a galvanized jail. While

Its own mortared shell, gray-hued,

Hides delirious light:

Amassed motes

From years of labor

Imbued iridescent.

Now hauled from home,

Sublittoral,

By an eager boy who works up the slope,

Bright and whistling

Through the serpentine,

The outcrops above the ocean

Where the Mendocino cypress barely cling,

Closed-coned and bending.

A flycatcher lifts and flits,

Startled,

With a quick trilling cry.

So small and then gone

To redwoods high.

Oh, gray-green passerine,

Take me with you

On your little barred wings~~

While in rooms below,

Counterpaned in black and white

Of the new night,

Ruby slippers gleam,

Lustrous sheets glacier up,

then flow.

MY EAST EUROPEAN SUMMER: WARSAW

I could breathe a little again,
In Poland,
Here in its heart, in Warsaw,
After weeks of Russia,
The poverty and punishment
Of camping and traveling.
And of you
Constantly scolding
And demanding~~
Worrying and wearing my soul.

We had crossed over and
Suddenly there was light
And color and music.
The streets of the Old Town
Were amber and amethyst.
Brightly painted carts with
Vendors hawking
Mushroom pierogi
And clothes
And crafts.

And Chopin.
Buskers on corners
Strummed and
Sang Preludes
Chiming and sliding
Off cobblestones.
Shop doors were
Propped open with Etudes.
Window boxes
Bloomed
With Nocturnes.

You even relaxed;
Let loose some
Principles
And changed money
On the Black Market.
Lech Walesa
And the Workers
Were in the streets.
Poland was on the brink:
Disaster or a Brilliant Future.

You took me to the finest
Restaurant on the Square,
In the Stare Miasto.
Wrought iron double eagles,
Warm sable balustrades
That led up stairs
To linen and candles,
Tables overflowing,
Dark and lush
With grapes and roses.
Smoked eel and sturgeon,
Tiny pickled vegetables
And caviar.
Borscht in porcelain.
Roasted pheasant.
Crepes with sweet cheese
And black sour cherries.

And, Yes,
The workers were in the streets,
But we were high above
And warm with wine
And plush damask.
Charmed, charmed.

Zubrowka,
The buffalo grass vodka,
Was brought out,
Liquid vanilla
Threaded with a brace
Of bitterness,
And the music began.

Another Nocturne,
Soft piano
And then the high luring cry
Of the gypsy violin,
Trilling in a minor key.

I was full up
And edging with tears,
As you began in on me again,
Telling me how I was seduced,
Narrating,
As though I were a show,
A story,
Something you had made up.

I could not bear the thought
Of you breaking the spell,
Again.
You knew me,
No doubt.
I had no protection.
My soul was bare.
But, I could not have you
Mock my soft, romantic,
Sentimental heart.
You were trying to be tender,
Perhaps,
But, your words were too rough
For me,
I could not hold their weight.
As your hand reached for mine,
I begged some little brass groszy
Off you and ran for the refuge
Of the powder room.

The gilt mirrors and the marble.
I could not look.
I knew my face was red
And wrecked with tears.
All around me
Beauty.
It was choking the air itself,
A thick perfume of little lilies.
The longing, the luxury.
Why was every sweetness
Only a moment?

I slipped a coin into
The old woman attendant’s
Flower-ringed dish
As she handed me the gentle towel
With a soft smile.
And there she was,
Small in her small chair,
The old woman who knew,
Who had gathered up the harvest of nights
And days,
Silently in her eyes.
How many songs,
How many lines,
She held in her heart
That hummed
So deeply
Beneath her white blouse,
Her little white sweater.
Quietly, quietly
Telling me
It was all
all right,
Everything,
Yes.

The Red Lacquered Box

Christ’s words are crimson
As your paper curls
That spill, quilling
On your opaline neck,
Cathedralled unabashed
In velvet azure.

Milk-glass, you daub
Jeweled fingers into
The marble font,
Coolly ruffling some pool in me.

My mouth, my craft
Is too small to ride
The river that is rising.

The cloth of me too rude
To glide with your satin
Through woodruff and violets,
To trace your eyelets and taste
the warm cakes of coriander
and orange.

I duck behind shadows, edges,
Catching fast my breath
That I might be graced
With the red lacquered box
Of your lips exposing
Such roses . . . . Such roses . . . .

A breeze runs streamlike, spiraling


Palms trace columns,

Sea-washed pylons

Lost so far inland,

Fossiled kelp & acrita-mottled,

Here encircled

Under lindens and solemn birch trees


Hilazon warbler,

You limn brackish manuscripts

And I catch only fringes,

Iridescent distrails~~

Your comings and goings

Through the ether,

The altocumulus featherbeds

You ruffle aloft.


Away, away

Cold rains come

Grey blurring.

Through sleep-smeared fieldglasses I spy you~~

Smiling and languishing,

Turned in and out.

Are those your lips,

Your words,

Salted blue through time?


Come sing to me

Long chains

Of rhyme.

Come sing to me

And untie

The places where I keep drawing lines,

In sands, in skies,

Through hearts and parts.

Bring your hand

And warmly twine with mine

And let us softly

rub them out


over time.