Love, Poetry, Reading

Book Lovers

Each with his favored arm
made his foray
scorning confections and only sometimes opening a hand
dusted with the crushed stamen
of a hothouse orchid. Walt came bearing small sprouts
at least before his straight-up offer of crotch and vine
while against my throat, Edgar licked
glossed feather. I choked down Eliot’s ragged claws and talk
of Michelangelo, glancing against the vorpal snicker
Carroll carried unsheathed. The graze bared
blood beat and Baldwin fire going the way I dared not ache.
I had barely found my feet and certainly not my sense
when, whispering, Kazuo led me to a corner of the room
I’d never seen and there, Salman with a slow grin
esta-esta-estuttered open his voice in song.

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Outdoors, Poetry


Find tongues in trees, books in running brooks, sermons in stones, and good in everything.

– William Shakespeare, As You Like It

At the upper lip
of a gilded wall the world slips
open beneath the half-lifted arm
of a woman whose locks trace
cirrus cloud and azure
day. Out there, the ancients whisper
fingertips against your
seeking arm and warm
forgotten skin like a shaft of light
showing you the way
to where the wakening occurs
despite haze cloaking sun,
miles to cover
and a capricious chill
at your unsheathed neck.