even Russia.

Cool air seeping in from the grubby, cracked windowsill soothing and smudging
along naked flesh,smothered in rivulets of warm water
beneath the detached shower head
being cradled between bare legs
in careful cogitation
as if a honeyed olive oil soapsud complexion
could celebrate
a body's onomatopoeia,
reinforcing the source
through port manteau
like Spilling
fresh homemade salsa,
piquant and playfully sheepish/
straight from the jar all over work clothes
or the beans about being in love, accidentally, on the deck over the river mid-rant.

Clumsy collection of collisions
akin to a pre Columbian coalition
of stalwart-skinned feet caught in the gateway;
beloved hindrances
like hitting sensitive hips on the doorknob,
or reading Great Gatsby out loud during the simplicity of bathroom trips.
And there exists an aggregate becoming,
coming
full circle,
a newfound and spellbound Discovery Zone
after loss of patience and false defeat.
Her finding lies
in an earth vendor,
an enthusiastic lender
of an open ear to the elderly Air Force storytelling
and ramblings
about gardening and Indians,
as squash plants and basil leaves distinguish
a damp and dewy resting place,
untrodden landscape,
state-of-the-art
and slowly paving the path
for nest building,
exploring bandwidths of growth
from the smoldering ash of eradication
creation from destruction/
jolting forward in soaring space and
vein webbing.



The Night Sky stretched and wrapped tight across the swept lands of epitome
like MamMah's quilted counterpane,
painstakingly and fearlessly encompassing all directions,
nursing
childhood nostalgia bled from starlight, sweeping winds of Capri blowing secrets
and the three of them have suddenly become
the most exquisitely delicate of
leaden soldiers
looking forward.



It must be.
(Es muss sein)
Go.
Take it and run with it.
Respect Wordsworth's original words
as the clouds of Plaster edge ever closer to the moon,
floating with Southern seeds of the future's call to arms
advocating steel sunflowers around a wedding band finger
and yet foreseeing something far more superior,
when questioning the hunting of doves
quickly becomes an entity
quite utterly crushed
beneath the helm
of the favorite
worn out
pair of
shoon.

She took off her black strappy sandals,
soft wine stained lips
parted in contemplation
of past flings,
voice transpiring
to echo like moisture-beaded cave swallows
in the hollowed glass.

Her Mexican blood was bubbling
as a floater's should,
head bent to smell the non-jasmine blossoms
in the tree overhang.
The dynamic embroidery on the caustic yellow
of her blouse
clung to her thin frame
in geometric floral swirled traditions
with practiced ease,
and she was fully unaware of her cultivated beauty.

They sat outside on the cabin's stone porch
beyond the stretch of summer,
sweat beading quiet as he wove tales from his mountain days,
stealing glances at Honey from across the way,
the cradle of hammock recumbent
and swaying.
He spoke of the music of lightning storms,
of rock throwing contests
in open

air fields,
of week long sojourns to nirvana;
eyes glazed with recollection of escape.


She would find ways to blame herself
and they would resist,
choking her words away
with
rich wines,
virtuous foods,
heated water,
tree fairy tinkle-bells of laughter,
sour cream coffee cake.

And they celebrated her life that night. The severing of a tie, the receding of stagnant tide.