Dec 25, 2008


In the simple interest
of honest coherency,
the fact of my love
tangles as hair
drawn and drowned
in tar--
And your eyes
the wash of turpentine, of gasoline--
And your thought
the sawing shears, the scalpel's wake--
And your fingers
crimson angels amid wet-black trees--
And your own love
an indigo flame, a heavy steam.