poetry is suspended time

“whole days in the trees”

an endless moment of breath and attention

it is the seed underfoot

it is water on stone in sunlight

liquid

salt on tongue

it is energy

it is word and song

and skin on skin

I could vine with you within it

dark-veined, hot-hearted

climbing higher, climbing tighter

seeking the heat and light of the overstory

lost in the dew, web and tendril of entanglement

*quote borrowed from Marguerite Duras

present

and peace-filled

there

in my garden

mindful of the moon blooms

and the wolves

“in my solitude” I am solace

you feel me?

smooth concentric circles “of reverie”

of temptation: warm, sweet, smart and wildly enigmatic

a sweet girl roller skating on a fenced in rooftop

and as chaos would have it

transmogrified:

and so we are reminded of the finite nature of a rooftop

the inevitability of gravity

and the mutability of fences

and if you’re willing to work a bit harder

poetry

if life doesn’t provide

there’s always fiction

(subtlety) is my calling, and sometimes I heed

others not so much

(intrigue) me with a good look,

the recommendation of a hard book

and I am unmoored

a wild thing

a blood-orange honeyed (bloom)

of a woman

but then, women are rarely what they seem to be

or what they say they are:

that’s just survival

pursuit for peace, just

kidding. vodka, anyway,

the blue stuff of dreams

to be, or switch it,

willow-strong , hard-soft

warrior of love

the mind is where sex

lives, and sure, it travels light

south, and into the body

skin-muscle-blood-bone

then heat descending

and that electric tang gets

dewy on your mind