Young Couple

Already in their eyes
a secret knowledge of smiles,
of new sweetness,
of the not yet completed.

And their voices,
which speak of mundane things,
of mornings, of childhood,
of the disappointment of rain,
conceal a tremor of bursting stars,
and tomorrows lost in endless sheets.

This precarious dance,
about the stamen of breathless youth,
could yet fail,
could burn in a conflagration
of jinxed guitars.

But, from body to body,
the night is the unspoken,
the necessary ache
that already spreads its roots
to open their brief mouths.


Since you left,
you’ve gained a new sensuality,
your lips full,
like a season of rain.
And the men who circle
like doomed matadors,
would wear you like a pin,
or carry a banner
to your fallen love.
But all this futile lust,
thrust your way,
only plunges you further
into your own voice.
Ah, your words on the dark paper
stitch solitude
into deeper need,
for storms and savagery
that will one day love you.
While the men circle,
living their fathers’ dreams,
while their day only returns,
you, on page after page of
your numbered hearts,
plot all the beautiful ways
to exhaust this life.


My lover’s vagina has undone her.
She had me fooled
that she’d mastered this impossible world,
and the motive of her body’s force,
and those eyes and lips that,
in her fiercer tides,
cast me to the wall
where I was utterly freed of artifice.
But at her moist core
the unbrushed hair and thickening scent
of her sexual water,
the things she would conceal and abate,
that too often speak the fuller voice,
the tongue she cannot tame,
that holds her at an angle
until the joy flows out,
and drips a crimson necklace
ringed around her sleeping collar,
her sleeping sheets,
that hurls her into silence,
into the ancient temple of her body
where her giantesses’s will stands mute,
and learns to heal
amidst a dark and painful incense.