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,

I’ve got the children to tend The clothes to mend The floor to mop The food to shop Then the chicken to fry

Her arms semaphore fat triangles, Pudgy hands bunched on layered hip… Where bones idle under years of fa… And lima beans. Her jowls shiver in accusation

A free bird leaps on the back of the wind and floats downstream till the current ends and dips his wing

Beloved, In what other lives or lands Have I known your lips Your Hands Your Laughter brave

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

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

I note the obvious differences in the human family. Some of us are serious, some thrive on comedy. Some declare their lives are lived

Funky blues Keen toed shoes High water pants Saddy night dance Red soda water

You drink a bitter draught. I sip the tears your eyes fight to… A cup of lees, of henbane steeped… Your breast is hot, Your anger black and cold,

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

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