Red river conveying women’s hearts
in baskets.
Through windy reeds, a foreign song.
Will the king open up the window sash
to let the lonely wail of bereft
motherhood curl up at his fire
like an unloved cat?
Sitting on the riverbank,
the queen of carnage
sees one glitter.
Wades in.
My private demon is winning
My wine hazy spirit.
The sunset cools
on a small snowfall.
The shining light,
it’s always washed in bleach.
Endless beach,
tears.
Sometimes we cry for our own sake,
cold,
and there are no boxes to contain
our needy mouths.
We all have been an empty harvest.
We have not been sown.
It’s easy,
to breathe tears into the body,
eyes to see.
In the fireplace,
every representative of the land.
I write to her in autumn leaves.
“You left something in the alphabet. ”
I am busy at my roots.
I’m not my good, unclean self –
the sun’s desire,
by chance.
Shadow autumnal mysteries with me.
The leaves will make me.
At the sea level a polished ice.
Under it,
two polite humanoids that cannot pass,
Their painful courtesy increasing
against the cold crusted water.
I have the urge to cry.
I have for years.
The storm swirls deeply,
Blurring boundaries between
The dead and the sea.
The winter will sail
beyond borders and shore,
an elegant hole in the warm web of living.
For now,
nude humanoids,
Scratching at the well-kept surface
Of a national ice.
The tongue over the unfamiliar color pink.
Under the indulgent skin,
cunning.
The blister is open where the money is.
Lie down,
Removed from the vicissitude of skin.
The pit of mercy,
His own money,
Leaves her hungry.
A proud pit, a deep pit.
The development of such objects
Unbearable as it is unacceptable
He wanted his place,
His needs eternal,
And so he did something dark.
In the budgetary bay,
the crabs are unaccounted for.
I am an oyster tending my pearl
with irritation and resentment.
Ripples have a mob mentality.
On the boastful shore,
a rabid fox is proud of his dry air.
Rain is the equalizer.
You will end up under my curves.
Your lips will manifest as stamps on my skin,
Your authority the book I read all day.
You peck at my boundaries,
mysterious weapon
of want and need,
Ascending from sin
To pure release.
The pure cleanliness of innocence,
Or the unclean marketplace desires?
To be friendly
or experienced?
Our sons come with the scope of power,
With the confidence of a multitude
fed on the milk of love
and grown in crocheted glimmer.
They will learn from a trick candle
How to live.
Our daughters?
They come with blood,
to give birth to thorns.
Among the piqued daffodils
my body of silk.
Nothing has touched me
but a phantom with a ribbon.
The friction of lace on my
lowest, basest secret.
The clouds are pearlesque,
my skin a pearl casing I wear
because elegance is getting
cheap as talk.
Born from my animal mind,
her breath cascades
over my breasts.
Her hands peel the lace sweetly,
sweaty.
Miniature Moon 