Three Poems


When the night dances
she is its prisoner
the slant of light
possessing her
the wind shakes her
holding her desire

Fingers play in her hair
her green eyes drowning
in shadows
her apple breath
weaving my memory
to rise above her


the mind in its quick-blue-abstract-
amid all the
broken fever dreams
begins to peer between the pillars-

caught at solitaire
of the tree and the bough
(and the grass)

bedroom candle shining
no fear of city nor sky

it is the garden
with purple and yellow voice (s)
how they peek along drifts
and flutter articulate
in sunlight

my feet and hands
over grasses
mimic its hope

She is

Her mind blurs-
her veins
(their blue streets wrought
of the cup)
have put out

The sun has her up
and so she comes
(as good at dice,
young and un-even)

—It is her—
in the gardens of white crocuses
on the city’s roofs