Она любила вишню с её пирожками;
но он давал малину без сахара.
Ей нравилась видеть туман утром;
уже он просил любови.
К счастью, она не знала,
не знала как целовать.

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Limply, lightly, ever so slightly
with a crane of the neck and
mockingly, so kindly a grin;

I never meant to keep you, a
stranger straddled along the
quaking lines of my mind; You
stranger, stranger, stranger,

I wonder if you knew that
muslin is worn in the morning
for women who are polite; or
that mulberries can only cover
the cracks in your lips for
the next hour or so, before I
fill them with apologies and
spite that glitters and glistens
with such a dark admiration.

Roses are red,
violets are blue,
the sun wouldn’t shine,
not without you.

Roses are red,
violets are blue,
this little poem
is just for you. 

Eustress & Distress in a Week of the Moon.

One Monday we wore the beret of
the moon — One Tuesday where
she hides the hive of her heart;
like french cream in coffee when
One Wednesday rings at nine;
like One Thursday greed for
candor and gold when the
gone light goes; the saccharine
killing: One Friday the ladybug
skating across the bathroom
mirror; the two days missing
that blend into caramel when
lips press into “I very much
love you,” One SaturSunday. 

My stomach cooed like a
dove in the alabaster sky
overhead —cotton and eavesdropping
in the minutest gasps. I feel
like a drowsy dirigible, floating
in elevations and directions
wherever your lips
lead me; in diamonds,
on kite tails, atop the roofs
of trapezoids,
in kaleidoscopes all
across the milky linens
that shift and sigh with
you and I.