in the shadows of yesterday I wait
eyes cleared to the dark
which, I say, is still dark.

but I am drunk on the crispy aphrodisiac of sunshine
as it sticks to winter virgin skin

hot.

I bury my toes in the sands of time and smell
salty sweat so sweet so clean so spicy.

the dance is getting harder.
I don’t know the steps
but I do love a good twirl.

and I am drunk, I say, drunk on the possibility of
aspirational ascendance of alliterative absurdity and
Love.

I have a healthy imagination, I say.
my cache of Hope is in good supply.
the glass is more than half empty and ooohhhhh
it smells good.

behind door number three the darkness clears to my eyes
which are still eyes
and curls into gusts of The Future
which tastes dirty hot.

like your shoulder.

I walk the line between wistful and teary
with chalk on my soles and marks on my heart.

The cable width changes like knit one, purl two
of someone else’s pattern written for someone else’s feet.

I cannot sing the body electric or write my theme for English B.
I know not what creeps in on little cats’ feet or out on leaves of grass.
I’m not sure the universe is infinite, either, though the magician’s girl doesn’t flinch.
But I do see the best minds of my generation destroyed by some sweet madness.

I was not with Childe Roland at the dark tower, nor the gunslinger himself.
And hell must be a pretty swell spot, where dips the rocky highland.
I cannot hear the call of the wild or see the far side of the mountain.
And victims, aren’t we all, for the world’s more full of weeping than I can understand.

I did lose a world the other day, while answering woe for woe.
And though a single man in possession of a good fortune
Must be in want of a wife,
I struck you first with a brazen nail and raged against the night.

Drink to me only with your eyes until the cup runs over.
This child dancing in the wind can be a lady sweet and fine.
Please take my kiss upon your brow if ever two were one.
I can carry your heart (in my heart), have we but world enough and time.

I have bricks of furniture and walls.
Mortar mixed of paint and fabric.

I have foundations of nostalgia and desire.
Plumbing made of photographs and journals.

I’ve got wiring strung of taut muscles and dripping sweat.
Windows paned in age and eyelashes.

I have fancy hats and rolling pins.
Acres of books and whiskey.

There are more baskets than picnics we’ll ever take.
But at least one hanger per memory.

I have pens and pencils and markers to spare.
With lightness and being to float.

I’ve got spare rooms and bedrooms and enough room for you.
But Ms. Scarlett did it in the Conservatory.

With the rope.

I have baggage and sadness and sweetness to boot.
And boots and sandals and tears.

I have light down from fixtures of crystals and love.
Skeletons in closets of papier mâche.

The blades of my fans flex in the shrug of my shoulders.
With wind made of kisses and sugar and fear.

And then there’s my bed.