Poetry

And my love, when do we talk
of wilderness
and daisy blooms?

The snakeskin―
twirls, and I watch the
wriggling night moving away.

I swallow the
empty words. They are not
heavy and no concoction.

The body and desires.
I have let then slip away,
my dreams, my knocks.

Against the dying of
blueberries in your eyes,
I will not wash the stains.

The curve of umbilicus
still remembers the dazzling
fall.