1. a poet's love

new monster

zinc-white and subtle,

the drag of a blunt nail across a lower lip--

the purples and sables

of your dress--the sineal curve

of your hair

tossed into the wind

that touched

your face.

i stood behind you and that same

wind blew

against me.

remembered perfumes, later,

bright in mind as colors.

lips pressed into a palm like milk.

lips lapping each other.

i said your name

and reached

inside.

raucous freshness

that hot concrete,

minute in detail, by turns sharp and smooth--

i crawled after your shadow.

i was glad to grovel

in the day's sun, which was gray, almost,

in your presence.

i had been tight within myself

always, tight as a seed.

but a hand reached out

of that fiery, turgid depth.

it was a shaken and pale shoot

and it was mine.

i looked at it. it plunged into

the presence of you as if

into water.

look at the cracks in that road.

palpable almost to the eye

in your light, that blue shadow

edged so deep.

like my joy.

watch this hand shake,

with those deep eyes, watch

how you

unfurl me.

dearest

as if i were

a self-planting furrow,

layers of deep earth

folding in over themselves:

in the warmth, i feel,

like your eyes,

rich as dirt.

one time i weeded on an aunt's farm:

the fineness of that soil

it got everywhere. and its moisture.

in the sun it looked deep and endless.

and when touched, it was warm

even in the dark places

warmed only by the sun.

how much warmer i

under your regard?

roses

another word for red

necessitated

by the look

of your mouth.

redefinition of sensation,

my lover:

my eyes change color.

exquisite awkward words:

you understand them all,

doves, flowers,

other flowers,

thorns--

your lips displayed like fruit:

apples, pomegranates, plums.

ruby-red, wine, blood,

breath, saliva,

teeth.

let me redefine

your mouth.

resonance

the waves frequent westcliff drive,

the beaches there--a slow furl, seemingly,

of heavy, heavy water.

that curve mirrored

in the taut lines of roller coasters

at the boardwalk. the curve moves longingly,

as if it were the peel of the air, drawing itself back.

i was shuddering at the top of that spinal

curve, and then plunging down

through air as if it were water.

and after i

got off,

i thought that

these paradoxical

movements

skinned from time

all were once

or would be

yours.

ich grolle nicht

there's nothing to blame,

my dearest. nothing to

it's just that there's so little left.

if i were a god i could write in tongues of flame

and i would say in letters a mile wide that it wasn't

...what i thought.

the taste

of a shadow is

something vile.

as if you were vile,

lover,

as if in the depths of your eyes lurked

white, warped things

that not even the sun of your face

could burn away.

white as zinc.

the flavor of a girl.

no longer to taste

the gravel

your steps

touched.

veronica

this strange building

rhythm, sinuous and

cracked as

a misspelled word.

asleep in the red caverns

of your heart

was a jewel the size of a fist.

it was my love

but it was cancer.

red and ravenous

with jaws like door hinges.

my love,

i wipe my face

on your empty shirt.

zinc metaphor

the equation is simple:

you never existed.

i never

touched your lips.

and i never fit

against your side.

and i never breathed

in

the scent

of your hair.

crawl in, something else,

and strip off this sick zodiac

whiteness. sounds

choke in the mouth;

their zinc white

burns

in the throat.

i hardly can stand this thing

with its weak blue veins like a starved delta.

its thin, thin scalp and

the broken roots of its hair.

the way it flickers

in the mirror

and i see you

sumptuous

there.

i wept in a dream

to think

that

at one sparking moment

in the stream

of the past

i put my mouth

against your shadow

and

that at

one white point

in the night sky of the past

my face rested

against

a wind

that had curved itself

against you.

lover, i hold out my hands

and nothing comes into them.

lover, i hold out my hands and

nothing

comes into them.

milton

i dreamed that

you told me to stop

wiggling my tongue like a snake

in a garden.

and i dreamed that there

were five steps to heaven.

all of them were made from you.

i dreamed a streak of red flourescence

across your forehead--as if i'd marked it

there with a light-laden thumb--

i dreamed only your eyes and mouth

and then dreamed only your sides

and heart.

my limbs twisted

like sounds.

i wondered why

i was the only screaming thing

in a river of fire

that shimmered silent

as a mirror.

quietus

my heart like

a split end.

trim it off

with the fat of memory.

throw it away

and watch the arc it makes in air

as if of your hair.

it wasn't you,

lover, that crawled out

into day,

white skin pimpled with shock

beneath a blue sky.

as if i stripped you even of skin

and wore you,

huddled

within.

in the sanity of moonlight,

moonlight dripping memory,

i draw a zinc-white thumb

across a lip

and wait for night

to dry.

meditations of the beast

beautiful scraps like

the fleeting repetition of a smell:

the sable arc of your fur--

the scarlet of

your curved tongue--

the waft of your breath

as if it still carried

on some honey breeze

into these depths

as if you still

meant

something

inimical--

as if your image

still drifted

on the mirroring shimmer

above this cracked red lake:

skin, or reflection

of heat.

but it's quiet.

my hide in tatters;

this does not matter.

suspended

as if in water,

i wait, patient

in pale state,

for the next scent

to bring back

what i never

had.