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with the wildflowers of my heart's tangles,<br />
casting free old relics which would become<br />
any shape the slick-bitten night desired.<br />
AUTUMN WISTERIA<br />
as long and drawn as anchor<br />
released to axle-line,<br />
your gangly form escaped<br />
the whispering ash,<br />
flickered smooth and lean<br />
along the lip of the sea--<br />
aqua satin eyes held mystics<br />
in foam, fingers pulled on<br />
weight of secret things,<br />
confident in the strength of<br />
your wrists as they held sharp<br />
on a measure of embrace--<br />
this knowing, sculled instinct,<br />
withheld a moment longer,<br />
until at last, you turned red<br />
immersed in your grit of<br />
wanderlust--and in the distant,<br />
autumn wisteria festooned<br />
with fog, scoured the ocean for<br />
an erstwhile equivalent of self--<br />
DANSE MACABRE<br />
The blond is not smiling.<br />
Her slender hands<br />
snake down my sides like<br />
two pale-throated pelicans<br />
sweeping the landscape<br />
of fidelity. Her penscript<br />
a curious river returns<br />
over the spine in an atonal<br />
symphony palpating on<br />
telegraph line. But I cannot<br />
turn back, for only<br />
daring souls build trust<br />
on barrier islands, whereas<br />
I grow weak and sail away<br />
remembering the caresses
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