March 30, 2012

poem 108 of a poem a day for 2012


pollen to dance with
(streetlight secret agent of bloom)


spying windows
March midnights
to morning is
all ghost birth
the Sun is
a high angle game
painting space
between bird sounds
and why we close
our eyes to smell

look up at
the left open
window and
a bending bough is
acting like water
so nearly not
a tree anymore

allows me
to dive in here
back to shallow sleep
and what dreams of Beltane
can till the deep pauses with

fortune 
accidentally spied
one of those wood nymphs
I love to write about
and tapped me
on the shoulder
to look too

she was
playing and waiting
with her legs
tucked
curled
uncrossed
knees up
waiting 
catch up
wearing her hands
blending into
each lean and
past my disbelief
easing turns in
wheeling eyes
for noses
wet spinning
each exhale
into whorls
of bark
she arches
standing
bending
backwards
slowly blending in
her body fading
into the fast
approach of dark velvet
only her pubic hair
still glowed in
the strain 
of the dead
light of stars
strewn with
the stabbed
desperation
of thieves
ready
to be born
when I 
was done 
looking

here
where
every molecular
marriage of the Sun
is waiting in
veiled fertility
like trembled
eager consorts

here
ready to horde
the whole of time
the leaves
know
to begin 
stealing
sugar from the light

EJR ©

No comments:

Post a Comment