It’s the eye of God, there’s no bottom—
and my pores opened to the smell of the road.
Cloves and small furry animals.
You pressed my flesh tender from youth and lonliness.
How long’s it been since we walked along with the weather
together?
Just talking and gesturing nobody
but us and the moon.
You are a dam or Eve and I am the candle.
Oh blow that fucker out and come to bed.

#87. Long Isle Pastoral

November 20, 2009

a green blurb of a thing
black and red
foundation houses
skated roofs
against a brassy sky
hazy (or lazy
silver cloud lining
copper
blue
somewhat deep sound of wave
slap
against the sailboat
i wanna be the mast.

%d bloggers like this: