Here We Are Again

Yesterday
left its tattoo upon my skin.

Some passing storm

walked
inside me.

Parade of Hours

Salmon hands, Pacific hands, Pisces-born, there are flies in my sleep.

My emerald speaks in such soothing tongues, her eyes dance with lust, but I cannot keep her.

There must be some chains that keep my coins; I cannot reach them.

Each of your fingers is a stalk of fire.

My love for you is a new arithmetic. It knifes me with a smile.

The parade of hours knows only your name, but I am a pair of mirrored dice.

I am the martyr of damp sheets and trees peopled with whispering stars.

I am nailed to laughing truth and cannot street.

Tomorrow is a theater, a priest, a patricide, champagne.

Trapped inside my poem there is no voice, only the greenest breezes.

I love the storm tumbling inside me.

I’ll set a trap for patience.

It Is in This Sense

Language reaches for a cocktail
dharma like a subway
(the well-known
months
large as naked London, the
aching fog)
Still in the published bones
secret things stand, explore the
curve of torsos, these psychic Alps.
Tired, I dry the dishes, French
kissing Wednesday, startled as a
statistic.
Eating twenties,
what apparition, blue and
pure, spoons sudden twilight into us?
What unreasonable
illumination
guides the Mirror to reflection?
Lexicographers
loathe luxurious latex.
Inside my poem, loneliness is a vault putting on make-up.
Chopping down the
compass, we explore evening like two
musical instruments
There is
a funny balancing called noon.