My wren soul When perched on the top Of your patina greened Buddha's beatific smile, Bobs its tail up and down In hunger, in pleasure.

Then the wind comes And the tent's canvas, Which your lips form, Begins to flap.

This expansive washerwoman Smile grabs my sullied body From crowds of other dirty Garments, beats it clean On a rock by the water, And leaves it to dry On the green meadow, Turned inside out!

2004:01:06 11:00 Atlanta

A half painted oak door, red on the top and sanded yellow towards the bottom. Smell of turpentine, wood polish, new carpet, a hairy dog, that smell all women add to rooms, something on the stove tea?, books in piles steaming like manure, beyond all this, the smell of your moony loneliness.

Goddamn it! I can't seem to file the lines of this poem just right, just enough to pick this lock, and to come crashing through the door!

The morning began As all bright days do Dripping with dew, Plans, outlays & hopes.

But as the sun progressed In it’s arc, those morning armies Beat a hasty retreat into the body Where an eclipse deepened.

The only escape from this shrieking Dark is a mute acceptance of it, For in reality aren’t even the clustered Stars spaced light years apart?

However what really saddens Is this poverty of desire, disgorging From the body, a homeless shelter Where it takes refuge every night.

It effaces all pleasures, of hearing Someone unexpected call, the sight Of a cardinal hurrying through The bare branches, Bach on the radio.

And reduces every evening To a self serving lamentation. Then I become both the mourner And the one mourned for. Then silence comes, after weeping, As exhausted sleep…