When her India makes Love

When her India makes love
I will dance across the sea
to the Sudan, Waltzing Nile
unfolding my tight hands, fish
will swim between my fingers
under the Mediterranean.

And then her perfume and whisper
of musk will delight me back to her
quickly and quietly, under and over
waters, through the lands where
cows give their names to children.

Across the warm sea where she
is as soft as the space between
rain and light.

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North Shore

Spirit Breath
close to your fine
cheekbones and myterious
skin, wonder and glow

for me, I am the one
who you knew one night
we were as close as
broom bristles, and your

sweet scent wrapped around
me, and I became nervous
with the new territory,
your smooth freckled stomach

warm thighs, delightfully
quiet, I undressed
you and wandered among
the glistening stars,
exhaling music.

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Black Golden Girl

Black Golden Girl
on Governor Nichols Street,
I must say goodbye
though your hands were
my shore, my silk,
my forever clock, heartbeating
on the surface of you still.

I swim in between thought
and spirit, around you
I wanted to sing, to shout,
to wander among the cool,
blue mosses at dusk.

Our soft moments are still
with me, like the time you
let me lay my head in your
lap while you sang a song
as old as the black hills,
though still young as hope.

But now the reign of hope
has passed, and I must seek
shelter with dry notes hanging
from thirsty branches and the wind
whistling as if it were a criminal.

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Lost King

I cannot reach into the dry grass
approaching dew,without weeping.

I cannot think of the cool night
under the old oaks, without feeling

that my young heart and ancient soul
have lost themselves again, and my passion

has slipped past reason, and landed
in a lost king’s hands, taking root in the

palm of a century, the tendrils in which
we’re forever held, planted like a hook.

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Rivershack

there's a country song with my name on it
with no dogs, no trucks, no jail time
just a road with "no vacancy" signs

once was your outline in the mist
streams of hair, wet eyelashes
blue white smoke from a cabin,

an embankment with tilting dandelions
a plum with spots, soft,
fleshy, breathing, bursting

a heartbeat with the fury of
an air conditioner in August
the stillness of an open wish,

even in a land of no god,
Sunday should always be a day of rest.