Soft basket (edit 2)

A basket slung over my shoulder
by leather straps, its belly
shaped like a plum,
wove of three kinds of grass —
thick-striped —
holds a stone,
a shadow-self that comes and goes,
places where
I touch the ground,
a river, a sea,
the hot-metal sun,
the frigid moon
in a blue-black sky,
colored lights,
a walnut (or two), brinjals,
an apple tree in bloom, in fruit,
and how one night
I dreamed your name —
its cursive strength.

You called.

I came and touched
your face, buried my fingers
in your hair, swallowed
your wine. We talked,
and kissed between the words.

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Three years three months and counting (edit 1)

Here,
leaves are falling
through
glassy air,
rustling, puddling
in corners.

There,
you used to swim in the morning.
At night
you’d go out to the swing,
and sit and talk to me,
your cigarette smoke
climbing the ropes,
while dogs’ yelps
tore holes
in the darkness.

Here,
My neighbor’s dog
is missing her owner.
She sings
for his safe return
with keen,
loving
cries.

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Soft basket (edit 1)

A woven-grass basket
slung over my shoulder,
shaped like a plum but larger,
holds a stone,
a shadow self that comes and goes,
some places where
I touch the ground, a river, a sea,
a hot-metal sun,
a frigid moon in a blue-black sky,
holiday lights, a walnut
or two, an apple tree, eggplants,
and my dreaming your name.
A cursive line
edges your strength.
You call to me.
I come, climb up,
and touch your face,
swallow your wine,
and bury my fingers in your hair.
We kiss between our words.

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The cut (edit 1)

See here, on my palm:
a still-bloodied cut
where a falcon’s talon
grazed my hand.
He’s off
to look for prey.
Never jessed, 
he sits by me,
or sometimes on my arm,
turning side-to-side.
Alert to motion,
he goes to feed
in moon-lit worlds.
He comes home
to groom his wings.

to mf on kc 2012

(original title: The scratch)

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Three babes (edit 1)

Three babes
in snow-lightning,
warmed in love,
asleep in my arms,
pine-honey sweet
cheeks soft
against my palms,
their years, my hours.

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The cut (original)

See here, on
my cloud-shadowed palm,
a still-bloodied cut,
where my
falcon’s talon
grazed my hand?
He’s off to look
for prey.
Never jessed, he sits
by me, or, sometimes,
on my arm,
turning side-to-side,
eyes unbound,
alert to motion
dark
in the pale desert.
Hungry,
he goes to feed
in moon-lit worlds,
then comes home
and grooms
his wings.

to mf on kc 2012

(original title: The scratch)

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Simple (edit 4)

I’m blots of ink,
a line or two,
a supergirl you draw
from inner sight.
Now split
the paper
with your pen
to find my
comic heart.

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Simple (edit 3)

I’m simple in your hands —
black ink on paper.
Supergirl in skintight garb,
your pen’s the blade
that finds my comic heart.

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Simple (edit 2)

I’m simple in your hands —
black ink on paper,
supergirl in skintight garb.
Your pen? A knife
that finds my comic heart.

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Clouds, like Toledo (edit 3)

Riding south, across the river, a mile
below the Bridge, see?
A tower and forested hills, with leaves
glowing in nooks in the bare, smoky trees,
as if someone’s been shooting paintballs
there, and the wind shearing the earth
to the west and the sky to the east,
and sullen, fast-moving clouds rising, like
in El Greco’s Toledo.

Turn around, love, and see three cities
in a Triborough view:

Manhattan, overhung by massive banks
of dark clouds.
Brooklyn, a sleepy heaven lit by sea-spume
and sun in the wind.
And Queens, calm in soft pink and pools
of white and blue.

Like that, this view’s for you.

View of Toledo by El Greco
View of Toledo by El Greco, at Wikipedia Commons — click on the image, to see it full-sized.

References: (George Washington) Bridge, El Greco (artist), Toledo (oil painting by El Greco), Triborough (Bridge), Manhattan, Brooklyn, Queens

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