poem 214 of a poem a day for 2012

Don’t be greedy, when you step into a scent portal

the womb

the wand

the blade

the steal

of skin

the supposed

thin part of stars

that is the slow fire

a soul rusts with

is 

always

thirsting for salt

carving time

inside a fantasy

of player-pianos

our wills are

writing symphonies

in sea caves

each one is 

our breathable memories

our high licks

and low kicks

our mortality’s membrane

letting in the rain

just a little bit

I call out for water

to ballast the wind

and remember

why I drew down the Moon

setting wooden spoons

on fire to honor

the Goldilocks burn

of the Sun

and the lost shadow magic

I bathe my remaining wild in

the thickening quickness

of my fertile release

is a clawed muffle

of screaming

it is the poetry

of my hunger

when Summer is ready

as She is 

on these days

as She is

always ripe

always willing

always wanting

trimmed vines

mined tides

fast hands

and eyes

that unfurl

the trembled directions

of our bare throats

She is blooming exhales

scribbling the mathematics

in the queen anne’s lace

chalk boarding something

for me to remember

along each turn

of the road

I 

savor this

evening 

steal

myself into

the side windows

spearing the West

with a squint

and a smile

that lingers

where She might be

between a cup

and the cut of a blade

between a rupture

and a rapture

that behaves

outside the light

that libraries give

EJR©