Intermission

We sit with the gods
But steal out early
After our souls have been temporarily filled
The vase is small
But has no cracks
And what was once a
Night scene now flows
Through the day.

Amputee

Amputations
Do not wear the same
As the strike of pistons
In rusted cylinders.

Amputations
Wear the same
Rusted cylinders
And strike out

Pistons burn and purr
Rust ridden and stuck
Amputations of a grand machinery

True Love Albeit Platonic

We beat around in the dusky malt.
It dries and leaves its residue;
Wait. The rotund morning drop takes shape
And I smile and lick my arms.
A reawakening in soft, slow strokes.
A refusal to release such sweet dreams.
Pour back, salt filled cup. For Another year.
And another, and another, and
Hundreds of days later, uncorking the night
With or without bodies, two hearts unchanged
Floating in a river of malty salt.
Licking their arms in hopes that the other’s taste the same.
Feasting despite the tongues tender notes.

She

Fragrant rises the leaf
Returns to its tree
Even briefly the familiar shape
Am I the lily, the lilac
Or the bee?
The hall bred from noble
Blood not worthy of she.
A lover is the shade underneath
The tree.