love story

The breath is part outside part inside, but she vows to return again and again (she is a rainchild). She ebbs if you are a shriveled fold of yourself and she will live in between swollen teeth and muscle. Or she will plume from parietal to phalange with her wind cleaner. This is the only loyalty in the world worth writing about—breath and her defiance of architecture. 

i have a good man

*

I have a good man inside this tulip. He is slender like a wolf is slender. He’s got that crust she loves—the way horse likes her brush. He is a brave-heart gypsy with enough teeth for two men. But he is not brazen. He is not cruel. In his dirty white shirt, this man is slower than the corn; carrying no burden. 

naked at sea

we bear at the shore
like monks our muscles
and bones

lubricated           our fat
our gestures
naked at seaedge

we are saying
it's useless      
for armor against this blue


                                           (our hair     our skeletons
                                            we tuck them
                                            in our cities)


but at the ocean
we humiliate ourselves in front of god
walk into doubt       sheathed with salt     glass church

we surrender because we know this deep   will drown our children  erode the ground beneath us  show us flight  show us anchor  dissolve our lies  burry our laws   and make us fossils.