Sky

spit muscled thighs

churn muddy strides

up one steep hill

then another

one more

then

sky

Advertisements

This life

Sometimes a dream dies. Something you may have held on to, believed possible for as long as you have memory. Age may decrease this distance. I wonder if this is an act of kindness.

Our body’s seem to pitch in too. Our vision fogs, a tender erasure of the imperfections of aging — everyone still looks wonderful.

What an experience this life.

Amatory movement

She

turns words

loose in me

gentle soft travelers

sent across all of her

being in deep amatory

movement wandering

her sweet configurations

in velvet darkness

feather tasting

undulating shapes

I’d believe

unreal if

I wasn’t

awake.

 

************

for a dream