Sunday
we sleep right together
listen to leaves. He
says his fingers
get cold from
playing, slips
them in my hair
listening in the
sheets to my
woman is water
do all men who
play guitar
get such
beauty from wood
I wonder slipping
my hand into where
he never wears underpants,
wanting to be
that warm
Burning Poems
The small ones
go up easy, dry
and light, full
of spaces
take at least
6 if you want
to catch your wood
sit back in the
chair, drink the
scotch, turn out
the light and
read my
but I know you
can’t wait to
get to you
Well the ones
that you’re in
are big, they
flare up like
lemon trees in
California, a
whole orchard
burning all night
and into summer
After the Reading the Color is Blue
paler than bruise blue,
more a no valentine on
Valentine’s Day
bluesy teal. Color of
strung sapphire beads
or the lightest
shadow of veins,
a blue Thursday and
Friday no longer waiting
for any phone. Blue at
4:45. February. Ice
moves east but leaves
the lint of opals. Blue
without faces. Blue in
the icy sheets in the
flannel that only my’
own arms wrapped around
me warms. I wanted a
jade tongue. But
it’s blue afterward,
a blue paint no flesh or
guava covers. Blue as
Drano or herons or
Ophelia’s last
underwater bubbling
through blue lips,
her fingers
already blue
Moving by Touch
that afternoon an
unreal amber
light 4 o’clock the
quietness of
oil February blue
bowls full of
oranges we were
spreading honey, butter
on new bread our
skin nearly
touching
Even the dark wood glowed
Snake Dance
I rub one bullet
I’ve ever held against
my lips, put on his
old Confederate jacket
We eat hardtack covered
with gold vermillion
high on an Iroquois
spell we make each
other tremble (I could
be doing that snake
dance knowing about
things that bite and
what happens later, still
taking them into my mouth)