the season is here once again.
this time of year,
it holds the memory
of such transformation.
i remember it was
when the hummingbirds left,
when they began their
great migration.
the air was changing each day,
just a little cooler,
a little
cooler.
before the hummingbirds departed,
they came,
wings a blur in such great motion.
“give us the skins
you’ve shed,
the pasts
with no place here and now!”
they said.
we took off skins and
layers of self,
all the fragile surfaces
that took our breaths,
that hid our eyes.
then we let a stillness come.
a tranquility in which we could say,
“this is how i will remember you!”

a tree is patient;
with gnarls about its
trunk, like old fingers.
it is sun-beached and
long since passed.
the days and nights
move around it.
we witness the blue sky,
so rich and clear,
and mistake our needs.
we forget tolerance
and say,

get out of the way
you old tree!
i want to see the blue sky
.

but the tree is patient.
by day
it marks the earth
with the movement
of the sun
across the sky,
not rushing it,
letting it be,
moment by moment.
at night it stands
almost sentry-like,
keeping watch,
waiting.
it never says,

you are gray today,
bring back
your blue sky
!

if it is unable
to mark the earth
as a sundial would,
it just waits,
gnarled and old,
like it was yesterday
as it will be tomorrow.

i speak a foreign language.

a million syllables and a thousand vowels,
and i speak it alone.

all i want is the pleasures of body and the connection of soul,
but i am tangled
in this language only i speak.

when spoken it holds a weight i don’t understand,
and intentions not desired.

i withheld my longing for the pleasures of body and the connection of soul,
frightened by the weight
of my words.

then gentle fingers fell upon lips and took the sounds.

a mouth came to my mouth and took words.

every syllable and vowel was swallowed whole.

as every syllable and vowel was held,
a voice in my language said,

i hear you.
i know your intentions.
I understand.
speak without fear.
speak honestly and
open fully.
rest here naked in the flesh
and
free of concerns.


my longing for the pleasures of body
and the connection of soul returned to me.

with the language we speak,
the language we share,
we will reveal ourselves.

we will draw letters with our tongues
and with soft breath upon our necks we will write stories.

it’s midday.
i empty the coffee grinds
from the press.
it’s too late now for
another cup.
i bring the
grinds to the compost;
walking through the grass
barefoot.
it is so humid
the lawn
feels damp underfoot.
i pause and look up,
shielding my eyes
from the sun.
above,
one thin wisp
of cloud.
it looks out of place.
can you see this?
wherever you are,
can you see this?
the curvature of the cloud
is so feminine
in shape;
voluptuous and round,
gesturing in both a crude
and shy way.
can you see this?
i am out of place;
here in the yard,
on the humidity soaked grass.
can you see me?
wherever you are,
can you see me?
i stand until
the cloud
melts away into blue,
a rich blue,
a humid blue.
wherever you are,
can you see me?

pink sky
just a thin strip
pale
silhouetted trees
the humidity
broken
gentle fingers
on skin
just a soft touch
hold
stay here night
stay
silhouettes moving
graceful
pink sky
thin strip of light
early dawn
stay here night
stay

i have misunderstood
the plum
such a thing
often overlooked
we feed each other slices
of sweet ripe fruit
collecting the juice
with our tongues
and sucking the extract
from our lips
tasting both fruit
and skin
this is our language
words have failed us both
it is primal
it is perfect
it is all we want
sticky fingers and lips
and the pit of a plum

For Eszter

trees touch the early blue of dawn.
these old fingers,
bent from life and seasons
of joy and work,
are still moved
by pleasures of youth.
i enter
and wake you softly.
you, still wrapped in sleep,
warm, with
gentle sighs that tell of dreams,
of worlds not understood here,
here in waking-life.
your body, perfect to me,
extends and stretches,
exposing warm flesh.
it unfolds
and i explore your figure
as if for the first time.
i breathe in your sleep,
tracing your being
with my lips.
my body presses against yours,
my erection
reveals my thirst.
in continuous lines
i draw you with my fingertips
so as to hold this forever.

i walk the road leading into the field.
it is lined with
a row of now leaf barren trees,
a groomed wind-block
on the southern side.
in the north
an empty field,
the harvest was taken
some months ago.
i do not know
what grew there.
what was sown and
harvested were never questions
i asked.
now,
the field is lined
with tractor marks
that have collected rain water.
in the last light of the day
the frozen pools appear as glass,
as if the sky broke
and shattered downward.
i stand silently and observe
the last of the daylight
which is caught momentarily in the
frozen surfaces.
i watch the day as it
moves with haste
and witness the approaching night
that seems too eager
to arrive.
i wonder how this field
will be
in a few months;
when the snow and rains have stopped
and the earth dries.
when the seeds are spread
and the deer mark their
crossing path once more.
how will it be
when the wind-block
refills its branches
with a green
only nature can perfect?
how will time move
then?
how will its passage appear
here in a way that mirrors
nature, but also seems displaced
and removed slightly
so that symmetry will
never truly work in this place?
what creature will
look on?
a human, no doubt;
awkward and beautiful,
equal parts fear and love.
standing as one does
when in awe, when perplexed,
when confronted
by the subtle shifts
in the natural world
that we recognize within ourselves.