Sunday, September 7, 2008


The shingle stones;
the shroud
of golden butterflies
hovering over the edge of my dreams.

You were the glazen mirror;
the glinting sunshine
ramming through nothing
was the poetry etched on your glass.

We were clouds;
once upon a time-
we were clouds.

An endless fall;
a hunger
of jagged knives
claws at the bottom of this desire.

You are a picture still
still enough a picture
-you are my picture still.

But the twilight;
the distant storm
of unprovoked tamarind lust
has washed these tides with words.

You are the blazen mirror;
The vastness
of your presence;
and I must step back to capture everything-

that slipped
back, beyond the edge of this cliff.