We’ve loved a summer now,

We’ve loved a summer now,
and words have scattered in your sight.
That surge towards you in my heart
pulls smiles, not words, to kiss my lips,
and sighs (and—god!—those moans) to
echo in my throat.
I gasp your words in place of air,
yet trace my scattering phrases
in my touch upon your skin.
And now—and now—
as you sleep on Skype,
and snuggle in my pixels,
my heart pumps words within my veins.
And silence flows with feeling now articulate.
And caring comes in whispers
of my pen upon this page.



I would have loved to be her reflection

I would have loved to be her reflection
to have your double trace his hands upon my skin
looking at me the way you look at her
while I glow to molten glass beneath his touch.
I wanted, in yet another mirror,
to share in her perfection
to revel in possession of that mole beneath her eyes,
the smooth, more streamline, contours of her thighs.
I ached to sense your weight on me
hardened, glossy, gilded
to writhe beneath your reflection
entangled, captured by your image.
I wanted, simply,
to echo each and every movement,
face flickering her sensations
tensing towards her brittleness
in silent, glassy, screaming.
I wanted it
to be
who shattered.


Your darkness stirred beneath my touch

Your darkness stirred beneath my touch,
soft and damply fertile.
I say darkness, but for myself I know
that term is yours, you seeing dark
where I behold just light and life.
just living;
all and only.
I break the frost
and turn and turn the earth
see the stains alight my fingers
and even out the cracks of time.
What dirt is there to shirk or shed?
but nourish; turn
and turn again
and never go full circle.
It is time that cycles,
impotent, with seasons
not with lives.
It merely marks the change
and we must move while it repeats,
retreats to regain future losses.
We, sweet scarecrow, are not static
but ever linear. Come,
re-turn your earth.
Don’t worry, I do not intend
to plant my seed, and reap
the crop I might have planted.
Why not let the field lie fallow
and sit
and savour in the air
the scents of new churned loam
and in the air
of spring
of skies that thaw to rain?


You’d think, to hear them talk
it was a simple geometry;
tracing your triangle
my overlapping ovals
my own triangle, where
you taper to your point.
Where the asymptote is overcome.
No one mentioned
that, while vision
sharpened to the touch of a knife blade,
sight would be in colours, unbound
by lines.
Nor the collapse
of expanding dimensions.
Expanding (the multiplication
of your kisses)
where many and
are inseparable
it takes nullity.