Trespass

Unhinge my thoughts
with the images
tucked under your blouse -
soft offerings of lace
that pull twilight's edge
wrapping my fingers
in silk stung knots
that unfasten buttons
and ripple your clothes
and leave me enthralled.

Unsettle my world
with the syllables
tucked under your tongue -
those sweet consonants and vowels
that lovers keep hidden,
stripping words down
to primal sounds
that chase down the dark,
and let my mouth wander
and trespass at will.

The Witching Hour

 

The lost hour of black magic

that trails the rough edge of midnight

when the moon seduces those

whose limbs dance and twitch

like fingers pricked on spindles,

and sleek, supple demons

polish apples and spread their wings,

perching on flecks of amber

to tangle the dreams of lovers.

Desire tightens in a catch of silk,

rippling over the bed clothes -

capturing your cries and whispers.

Buttons open like ragged wounds,

spilling soft pleas of want;

and the sweet torture of skin

pressing skin becomes a music

that leaves you unnerved.

You taste shadows in your mouth

and the bright smoke of memory,

as dark coils like a braid of jet

to blot out the stars and candles -

holding you a willing captive

deep inside the witching hour.

Monsoon

monsoon season -

the wind forgets

the shape of this land

and how the world spins,

paled with longing

to be still.

air hung out to dry like laundry

we forgot and

the brisk taste

of water

pooling in the fields.

the windows are drowning

wanting only to sleep

until winter

as we watch

that tether to the sky

break

loosening the birds

and the tree tops

rebelling

against the clouds

until it is thick

with violence

and the wet grows

behind

like a mountain

pulling up its roots

to flee.

Pomegranate

Her kisses

are not like wine.

They are more intricate

and melifluous

than that which blots

a poet's lips

and leaves his senses

dulled.

They are not like honey -

the morbid sweet

and clinging flow

of thick and amber light

that tangles up

his tongue.

Instead, they are like

pomegranates,

richly red

and dense with juice,

their flesh pulsing

on my lips

and that dark

delicious memory

of Eve's final wish.

January

Winter came late that year,
catching lazy autumn off guard,
burnishing the late harvest grapes
into the mellow stain of Brandywine
and breathing soft frost
into the dreams of sleeping children.
It rolled pewter across the sky,
chased the moon with chilly fingers
and cast long shadows across the ponds,
lashings of stripped birch branches
rattling windows at midnight,
and slipping through casement cracks
where it hid in silver fog.

It swept leaves from silo lofts;
muddled tobacco and blackberries,
and spangled cobwebbed corners
like stars strung on a bracelet.
It glistened and twinkled
and made the children dream of flying,
feet skimming weightless on silver
like slivered wings of snow owls.
It made old men think of laughing,
and set mothers to baking apples
and unpacking wool coats from trunks
hidden behind the attic eaves
where moonlight practiced magic.

It crept into bowls of snow pudding
and tucked itself under sleds,
piling in drifts against windows.
It stretched across bridges
and nestled over the fields,
trapping wood smoke under grayling skies,
blanketing winter's white burr
with promises of January.