here blood and soil mingle
like a shadow leaning in
to join a violent lover
sucking freedom from her lips

snapshot
dream
swaddled
in
eternities
silk
ribbon


I climb the side of a volcano carved from ice,
heat drawn from the well of devotion that is the female heart.
-Patti Smith

it's a good morning
when you get to pour honey
on Sharon's biscuits

collection plate

your eyes are like
deep puddles of grieving stars
on an empty side street.
and you've tried to slip
your frozen fingertips
under the new sun
rising just beneath your cheeks,
coaxing forth a more fluid,
resolving heat.
but you see the little sparrow
with her broken wing
falling from a leafless branch,
calling your name,
singing sweetly in your ears
the last song she saved before her dying,
her rescue just beyond your reach.

he'll retreat into
a barren womb to chisel
on his own tombstone

just
as
you
begin
to
sink
into
the
dewy
lap
of
sweet
william

war games

blood soaked and
black bruised; a sobbing peach
left to rot.

injured bird
soothing twilight with a
birthing verse

she'll whisper,
"cardamom." so sweetly
that you'll peak

close enough
to smell the cinnamon
and fresh blood

woody guthrie

the fire king
is thirsty enough to
drink poison