A Hot Knife

The whole world
feels as though
it wells up in ways
I am uncertain
where or how it begins
or ends, or even,
if there is an ending,
where words spread
like butter with a hot
knife across
a piece of hot bread
you offer,
but I am not hungry,
and no longer want
to eat, with too
many words already
swallowed, digested,
and now sick
and unable to think,
where I question
if any of them
were ever for me,
or just an exercise in writing.

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Through The Ceiling

When I start to feel
as though the weight
of all things
has formed a crack,
as though
the floor is about to
give way at last,
then I’ll take
the tip of my toe
and test it, to see
if it will hold,
or if I can break it,
and if it appears I can,
will jump so fast!
into whatever this is
that calls me.

 

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An Orchard

With your hand
might you reach
to pluck
from me
and take
what is a given?
A gift!
Which has grown
on long
and spindly limbs
and kept itself
from spoiling,
so at once is grasped,
is eaten!
To yield in us,
an orchard.

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At Corners

Does he notice? how beautiful the shoulders, sun-kissed, barren and browned in the heat of Summer bearing, as they must, always, the weight of the body, while waiting to tell another’s story, as straps so purposely give, then slide and fall at their own fruition, here and now, at how delectable the flesh is at corners, with trailing hands and kisses meant to destroy, then resurrect what the body was always meant for; here, in this turn and curve into another.  

 

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In His Heart

My hand has developed a slight tremble now,
in an attempt to hold my pen
to see, if there is any ink left to give,
but I have given so much already, so many
under-appreciated words I undressed before him,
undoing eye hooks and buttons, zippers
and laces from bodices, that when every word
dropped, he watched deadpan, while they fell
in a slow float to the floor, and I asked him
if he could hear the weight of it, but he said
he could not, and so I asked him,
“can you feel the sound of it in your heart?”

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Forge

There are so many words
to give so many reasons,
that how could one know
for sure? In what direction,
the words, they all were
going, like a river must run
its own course.

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Lesson Plan

He wants me to sign up
for one of his “private” workshops,
and, “hmm… tempting,”
as I try to imagine all that
might entail, and where
exactly would class ensue,
and what exactly would this
lesson plan look like, and
what might I be required to do
to pass the grade, Darling?
Hah! And you make a statement
like that, and what do you
expect my mind’s gonna do?
Because you still don’t get it,
or understand why, or say
how you’re still… so, so confused.
Yeah, me too.

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Dear John

It is though a garden here,
making my way
up the rows,
picking letters to form
into words to hold,
as bundles in my arms,
to place upon the paper
just so, to sign, address,
then let it go.

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The Salt

I am,
what sweet reward
awaits him
with mouth
to savor
in me
himself to sew
a river
coursing
the banks to hold
such deluge
love will be,
such as the snowmelt
has never seen
the river so full
and coursing
its path
to where it meets,
together at last,
the salt.

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Time Reveals You

What seduction is this,
what play on words,
with the body draped
in mystery, and how
naive to think
we can stand unscathed
before the mirror
and keep ourselves
from being seen,
to keep all things
in secrecy,
when piece by piece,
we’ll be disrobed
in the slow process
of unfastening,
until all our buttons
and all our strings
have been undone
and have been pulled
in all of our undoing,
and as all garments fall
about our feet
we’ll stand in this;
such unrepentant glory!

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Midday Sun

Summer swoops the pond
full of dragonflies and frogs
as the swallows come in
for lunch amongst a song
of dancing bugs, and how
joyful this is to watch in the
slow heat of a midday sun. 

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Find Me

I am all but tongue-tied,
emptying myself of
how many words?
in other places,
with no filter, and no sieve,
and perhaps by doing so
I do myself and you a disservice,
for now, I am finding here,
a lack of words for not finding me.  

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I Would

If I could submerse myself
I would, into him, who is
the water, where no part
would be unknown,
no part unseen or hidden,
no part unfelt, but all of me
and nearly drowned,
I’d find in him, I’d float.

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Ask The Gods

You seem to punish yourself,
for the thoughts you have of me
are my thoughts, with arms
and legs to wrap around you
in this perfectly natural state,
where I have never doubted
I would be happiest
with nothing but you, and nothing
between us but a kiss of madness
upon the mouth. And I relish in it,
these thoughts with you, in all
this peeling away, in all our
nakedness, and there is nothing
I would hesitate or be ashamed
to say, when it comes to how I feel
about you. 

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Original Meaning

Let me rest
the words
here
between us,
and while
I sleep
to dream
in green,
may all the
the words
somehow find
their way
back
to their
original
meanings,
that when
I wake,
and still
hard-pressed
to be
against you,
will finally
know
what all words
meant
when said
in our
lizard brains. 

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Insatiable Desire

Beneath the covers
could we hide such
lustful appetites
with hands that run
the softest lines
along the body?
Like a trembling
newborn fawn
to its mother’s teat,
suckling, suckling,
hungry to fill
the mouth
with such sweet need
we have
of each other,
until the body
spent, wakes
and partakes again,
over and over
you asked,
and so we gave
of ourselves
like something
innocent, obscene,
and wild;
this inability to tame
this insatiable desire.

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Bed Pillows

Am I the last thought
to cross your mind
at night, and the first
to pour through your
eyes in morning?
And what do I do to you
in dreams, asleep and
waking? Where the roof
of the house is ours,
though not containing
to hold the boards
of the floors we walk on
that creak and ache,
full of the dreams
that run off of our
bed pillows.
So yes, I am listening,
beside you, waiting
for you to tell me, how it is
we got so lost.  

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Me Neither

He says something that resonates,
and I think, how true of everything,
where feet dare to tiptoe or abound
with no thought for consequence,
should be every Wordsmith’s motto
inscribed above the door frame,
‘unless the words lead me there, then
I don’t want to go.’ 

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Soldier of Experience

The hours,
they fall upon us
like heavy cloaks
as we pass
each other,
as we are forced
to march
and walk
through Time;
Oppressive Master,
always counting
to the meter,
to the rhyme,
“faster, faster!”
he yells,
in sounds of
constant ticking.
So incessant,
how many of us
forget and fail
to hear, these
cloaks we wear,
and how soon
Time will take
them back
and demand that
what was borrowed
for a season
be passed on
and given
to another
Soldier of Experience.

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These In-Betweens

There are no more words
I care to use
to build walls with,
and no more words
to bridge
such an expansive divide,
where all these
in-betweens,
they never existed,
and dare I say,
neither did you or I.
But what an untruth
we both know that is,
and what a falsehood
to say, what a lie.
So there are no more words
I care to use
to tell the world with,
how he loves me, yet still,
doesn’t understand why. 

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