3 Beliefs – 1

“The fields are full of flowers,
  The sun is burning gold,
  Come run with me, come be my love
  Before the night comes cold —“

”My love, I have a different plan:
  For days and nights of toil
  Can lead us to a better life,
  And you to better soil.”

But days and nights gave way to weeks.
Now months and years have passed,
With each new job another score
He swears will be his last —

He loved her, just as she loved him.
But now he just can’t quit:
For I believe that summer knows
What winter won’t

Admit

mnemonic tide

you shared with me reluctantly
your out of pocket views
on how the world would look if you
were only free to choose

there was an ardor in your voice
a pattern in your eyes
what happened next bewildering
a mix of words and thighs

for what cannot be stopped must go
into the void or past
and what we leave for afterwards
is what will really last

for you were on a launching plan
that you were loath to forfeit
and i was just that bit of fuel
you needed then

to orbit

love is only what love is

the rain touches her, and she, me –

love is only what love is

outside the realm of
resolute indifference,
she walks among the
clouds and stars and toast

but tells me not
to worry over details,
for it’s her essence that
she misses most

of rainy days and
stormy nights, says she,
there’s little left of
what was Givenchy

but round up what you’ve got,
and bring your graphs,
for heaven knows that i
could use the laughs

cinnamon or taffy

the boardwalk summer:
low tide and high feeling,

a helpful bit of sun
along the way,

and music, like a
soul-possession engine --

a tastes-like-cinnamon-
or-taffy day


a kiss behind the pier:
a running stallion,

a dancing mare
with yellow tangled hair,

a range of wooden slats
for many horses,

a galloping within
the blare and glare


a multicolored night,
a mini-vegas:

a taste, another taste,
a plunging in,

a space for two,
a tentative exploring --

a map of worlds,
that's written on the skin


a cinnamon or taffy taste,
a blending,

a play-it-off amid
the swirling crowd,

a hopeful kind of glance,
a sudden sorrow,

a private look
that's somehow said out loud


a day a night a gain a loss:
a growing

that no one notices,
and everyone --

a summer on
the boardwalk of tomorrow,

a halting start
that stops

but isn't


done

Night Song

The wind is blowing in the trees,
    the sky is dark and gray;
The lions here are ill at ease,
    and loath to stay that way.
There is a restlessness outside,
    a fathom deep, a mile wide —
            and we
            must be
    the minions of anxiety.

Our fav’rite books have all been read,
    they’re back up on the shelf;
The lion wants another song
    that he can sing himself.
There is, without, another storm,
    (inside these walls, those are the norm)
            but lest
            we rest
    our anxiousness should be confessed,

            we know
            just so:
    we anxious minions of the soon-to-go

Sonnet 39: In Which She Is Chasing Something

A dream need not be fearsome.

A dream need not be fearsome, she has found,
But yet be odd and hard to understand;
She runs on, over unfamiliar ground,
Across a strange and foreign stretch of land

The trees are clumped in moving sorts of groves
With leaves of gossamer and mercury;
They point her towards her quarry as it moves,
A sort of arboreal courtesy

But she cannot make out with clarity
Just what it is she chases all the while;
But yet, she runs on, with celerity,
Across one lonely mile after mile

She doesn’t know what has been put to flight
Although she has this dream most every night