a twist on a turn of words
her flower, his hunger
they spin stone for bottle
counting crows perched
high on the live wire
to see who gives what & how
his is the spring
& her seething gives to dance
with her flair, her flail
her everything & ghost
his everything & love
suspecting the hollow
of the old trunk
in the field alone stands
they spin bottle for stone
while crows writhe & laugh
at how the given becomes what
in seething this spring
needing not to need or
to be the object needed
a settle into sitting as
do stone, moss and tree
just a drift of fine snow
blowing feathers across
the long and open road
whispers polish asphalt
under a sun hung low
under twilight longing
restless and wrench ache
ever just dreams slipping
lacuna & moon dipping
blood for the ash given for
palms crossed with silver
time to toss the dice,
wondering at if
they come up
twin death's head moth or
showers pouring over
with a sighed name
on the northern wind
wisp whisper am
breath sigh on wind
crisp and have shatter
slender parchment thin
unseenly and obseenly
ghosting of wing
tok tears am pale
scene at the fading
screaming on howl
lack beginning
i am lost and
i need to get
more lost to see
a way through
for the forest and
also the trees
on a long and
winding road
is where silence
begins
can we speak plain
cos i have forgotten
how to speak
and the words lost
all meaning in
the fog of dream
anyway
we needs must find
them again
we sought meaning
in rootsoil and mycelium
turned over understone
beseeched the sky
(i think you know why)
and whispered to crows
for their insight
and as for our meddle?
we still sit speechless
about all the things
under the oak tree
under the wings
come, kiss me
to spoken, my dear,
under a turquoise sky
i rest my head at
the hill of dreams
waiting there for
the ghost of you
in that slipshadow
your hand on my hip is
my hand on your hip
cutting the twilight
of midnight under
a lazy summer moon
hanging low enough
to grasp if but
for only slender hours
before is slips behind
an ashen veil of dream
