Give me your hand Make room for me to lead and follow you beyond this rage of poetry.

I keep on drying again. Veins collapse, opening like the Small fists of sleeping Children. Memory of old tombs,

We were entwined in red rings Of blood and loneliness before The first snows fell Before muddy rivers seeded clouds Above a virgin forest, and

Some clichty folks don’t know the facts, posin’ and preenin’ and puttin’ on acts, stretchin’ their backs.

A last love, proper in conclusion, should snip the wings forbidding further flight. But I, now,

I keep on dying again. Veins collapse, opening like the Small fists of sleeping Children. Memory of old tombs,

One innocent spring your voice meant to me less than tires turning on a distant street. Your name, perhaps spoken,

The sun has come. The mist has gone. We see in the distance... our long way home. I was always yours to have.

Curtains forcing their will against the wind, children sleep, exchanging dreams with seraphim. The city

We, unaccustomed to courage exiles from delight live coiled in shells of lonelines… until love leaves its high holy te… and comes into our sight

My man is Black Golden Amber Cha… Warm mouths of Brandy Fine Cautious sunlight on a patterned r… Coughing laughter, rocked on a whi… Graceful turns on woolen stilts S…

Your smile, delicate rumor of peace. Deafening revolutions nestle in th… cleavage of your breasts

We, this people, on a small and lo… Traveling through casual space Past aloof stars, across the way o… To a destination where all signs t… It is possible and imperative that…