Write when you have the bones.
Right when you have the bones.
If I had the wings of an Angel
The curve and camber
of lofted windowlight.
An epithet for the sun.
Shady doings…
Embowered in dappledark
the mushroom kin
shake out their seasonings
in a randy rain of spores
A fallen pollen
for the dusky earth
Shaded with umbrellas of gills
Lament
Sweet Memory
then and now
As venous as a leaf
As cavernous as a lonely heart
Odds are
Copters of the dandelion-Maple
hover and spin
hover and spin!
Miss the mower
Allowed to flower
Allowed to root
Bumbles and squirrels to boot!
Who wears short shorts?
The wan sun on Athabasca.
Her dress of snapdragon lace.
A dwindling down to frost, this night.
An unexpected need for gloves.
Keep moving,
I must.
Hot gossip
I told you,
from a distance,
that I loved you,
and was blackened
with the earned shame
of the illicit.
Noses sniffed.
Fingers pointed.
Hands covered whispering lips.
But you?
You had a look of surprised wonder,
and blushed redly,
uncaring of the devil’s radio.
Erotique
I carry scissors
just for this,
you know.
Straddle the lacyness.
Snip snip
(at the seams, mind you).
What’s that,
a bit of talc?
Ah, but you feed me
with dream.
I lay in quandary,
ear to the cotton.
My dirty laundry
is long forgotten.
martians
It’s a strange thing-
I know Phobos and Deimos,
those named moons of Mars.
Road closed
In churlish dream,
ragged clouds of storm,
bruised and tumorous.
Have I lived enough,
done enough,
loved enough?
Must I take the knife?
Aremyfeetofftheground 