Salt lick

The buttons pop

Between my thumb

And forefinger like

Precious pearls

Eros dream weave

Un-weaved

One layer at a time

Pearl buttons

Giving way to

Flesh buttons

Soft buttons

Hardening

Into buds

I can touch

With the tip

Of my fingers

And then my tongue,

Like a buck deer

Licking the tip

Of a salt lick

Churned up

As I pump up

And press my lips

Around it

To taste the oozing

Pale honey

I must drink deep

Or perish

Changing leaves

(from All Roads Lead to Scranton)

We leave with the changing leaves

This mountain side, this rushing brook

This fall off to the depths of souls

We could only imagine until we

Actually walked this walk

And talked this talk,

The sharp edge of some great

Adventure upon which sit

Waiting, wading in the stream

Of life while below in the valley

The sluggish autumn waters

Darkly reflect us and the leaves

And the trees that must someday]

Turn green again

Smothered

The ice melts in my mouth as I sip

A sweet nip I can’t get enough of

Or let seep deep enough into it me

Each drip linger on my lip

For the tip of my tongue to taste

In haste, not to waste, smothering my face

Until I’m hip deep in this,

Aching from toes to nose

For a taste of something that

Won’t melt so easily, but lingers

Still inside of me, as my tongue
digs deep to where the honey lies,

Each breath as gasp for air

I don’t need to breathe so much

As the scent of you.

Out of the nest?

I can’t breathe right in this chill,

Though steam pours out of my mouth

As I make my way over the crusted earth,

The bare trees exposing each vulnerable

Nest that leaves hid in season and

Kept their contents safe,

And most have become empty

Cages out of which the birds

Or squirrels or raccoons

Have fled, the rigid world

Offering the former residents

No warm place to take refuge

And so they go and I go

And we walk this world

Together like shadows of each other

Waiting desperately for spring

To thaw us

Inside and out,

So we might rebuild the nests

We fled in winter.

Sales pitch

It’s the same pitch

But at a different pitch

Made shrill with the spill

Of desperation,

A card-shark’s bark

When he’s eased

The last ace from his sleeves,

And is forced to bluff

Or seek an honest living,

You can only sell a bad lemon

So many times before

The lemonade turns

Too sour for anyone to sip,

It’s not what you sell

What you must sell yourself

But how dinged or dented

The fenders are, or how

Thick you lay on the polish,

You can’t disguise rust stain

Tears for real tears,

Or a bad paint job for trust,

And like virginity

You can’t get trust back

Once it’s gone,

Regardless of how many

Times you repaint the package,

Leaving only those who love you enough

To buy it all sight unseen,

Knowing what they’re going to get

In the first place.