October 01, 2008

A couple of poems from early summer

Essays on absence

Writers without lichen, or footsteps

Or clay

          Pause on their way up the steps

To the vista of the great grey ponds

In the palace gardens.

Rain sweeps down the hill below

And on the tower stairs

A girl weeps sodden

In a polkadot dress

Her sweet breath hovered laced with champagne

Writers kneel on the wet flags

And comfort her

Or stare at her

Or lick the raindrops and the eyedrops

From her milky cleavage skin

To weep also

Or to stub out cigarettes

Between her shoulderblades.

Without lichen, stones in the garden walks grow black

And her ankles grow cold

Without the soldier’s kiss.


Fire Eaters

In bed with a king

Fresh faced and kissing me down the bone

Of my breast

Over navel and down to the

Hot hard shelves

Of our loving library.

I inhale you, man.

I enclose you, man.

I roll with you, through my sighs

Grow old

In the fallow lands

Of our bone fats

And the great red coils

Of our hair.

We are red

duskier by our thighs

But still red like fire.

Wet fire shifting against wet fire,

Crimson, sticky, devoured.

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