May 19, 2016

forms, cork, wax, old green glass and hermits healing hearth lit

Baba Yaga 
the wine 
she cellar-ed well 
asked if eye could 
help while here 

she drove sun to rain 
even when explaining 
how to cook something later 

was she ripe at birth 
i am sure she was 
imprinting herself 
upon everyone 
as soon as she 
could actualize 
a thought 
or bargain 
between flesh variance 
and cyclical ritual 
repeat or rinse 
and pretend 
pattern almost 

i kept 
exploring myself 
stepped, steeped 
in that womb 

she was always time
dressed nine gates 
living between silk 
and ash 

she is sly 
hidden wink quick 
macabre wonderful 
bold and sweet structural 
reminiscent Spring 
she has a pawed earth scent 
Winter root dragon 
hibernation on knees 
a burning quiet 
a somewhere 

she knows bones 
carry secrets 
in their marrow 
and that caterpillars 
never mind 
being eaten 
by birds 
while eating 
their own way 
to wings 

vessel pressure to precious
child bearing 

life was
to wear 
and be worn
with nothing 
but now 

where words 
are not 
as important 
as understanding 

she demands places 
in her self 
horses and carriage 
carrying Dawn 
her tits and lips
up and down 
an old road 
once took home 
to peddlers lane 

nothing but love for sale 
or else all is 
given away freely 
and we turned 
the bottles 
sixty degrees
every few 
new moons 

we'll open one 
imagining while drinking 
that we are roasting 
tenderly aged suckling 
disobedient spoiled 
Alpine children 
spit turning 
them slowly 
as we hum 
the songs 
of the seasons 
in the poems 
of urban social folklore 
humans and their lusts 
for their comfortable cages 
as the Hemlocks 
bent in a lean 
intending on 
listening with rhubarb pie 
warm at the window sill 


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