olover

O Lover
your eyes
Hold night
but care
is mockery
.

So shall we see this prose poem riding the back
of night, a violent storm _ upheavals of
of our love.

Or other calenders of pain,
pleasure's
brother
your sister
of stars glowing .

Images find the weak source of its regret.
First she finds her lover's body, her body is weak. Its an electric sensation of disappearance. She says to herself, in the mirror of her wax skull, the flesh of her being, hey Buster, is that Me, you are kissing.His body is sleeping as Agatha wakes the dragon call. He wakes to her arms. A mystery, a lesbian kiss to his love. let's not exaggerate this stuff she whisper. It kisses her ears. She is stuffed to the gills with love of her boy
friend. The word, is necessarily broken, as the host of a catholic's mass might be. Or say a lover walking past your long ago, and now you're caught.
Whispering. The dirty ditties of love's old song.

Hold the moon, love
its heart springs here
where your hand remains
a trace your voice
as it was crying sobs to bliss
lifted out and up
around its heart
made a fist
one two you I two one two one

Hold the moon love
it falls over the sea between
us
between breaths
the beds






Banish
I Banish thee tears! My natural self is comic generous, happy, joy abounds over the river of thought.

Here each body is a joy a becoming of desire,

the fluid lap of toes and hearts, encountering across "the dark chasm" of time. but we are the river of love.

I came to hold your body
Your lips were cross points .. to end night's perjure.

O r say we look the poem as object. One has to be vital .


To the night of language, and desire.


lover 3
O Lover
your eyes
Hold night
but care
is mockery
.

So shall we see this prose poem riding the back
of night, a violent storm _ upheavals of
of our love.

Or other calenders of pain,
pleasure's
brother
your sister
of stars glowing .

Images find the weak source of its regret.

lover 2
Lover to its heart
spin past night
your arms

gone
the city of light
passed

Paris then Dublin
back to London lost wayside walker
you were I was wayfarer
Seeing your eyesyour hands gripping as before they groped
so night spelled ending
as these rains fell swordward
this word sees your name
your body
back to Paris
return to Montreal


So calls night's horn
to me to your body