In bandwidth of your cherishing,
I spray, divide like
ashes fall from cigarettes,
the burn dispersed by tenderness.
L'amour encore
I once considered consummate ghost,
seaweed thread on shifting rock,
is now quite full Chrysanthemums.
Taller, thicker, year by year.
Coloring cracks of starving soil.

Worms of age, our graying hair --
learned tarnish on a tray.
You finger me like Brie en croute,
spread my senses on a cracker,
shaking longing's tambourine.
Serving sunlight to a moon
that gathered smoke and chimney soot.
Blended bliss from lifting corns --
a kiss some kind of medicine.

My mother said, "You'll need a man
with patience for the thorns of loss,
who'll carry you across the desert,
feed you ice chips in the night
when motion's moisture will not fall
even from packed clouds of will."
He'll have to be a pointed greyhound
higher than the hurdles stand.
As magic as the wand of passion
is at times of bodies pressed,
love's cervix ain't anatomy.