IN OTHER PLACES

december I fired up
the car and
found
that to the south
lay groves
that winter had not
picked her teeth upon.

I found this other thing,
you know.
her finger slumps
against my teeth
like a peach’s
fertile arch;

the white smell
of her thighs
is the fat harvest
I have deserved.

since leaving
I have learned droves
regarding peaches—
discerning those
fraught with sweetness
from those
which are already
spoiled.

she is
why
I do not remember you.

A sledge where my heart was.

It has been several weeks since my last contribution--I send my apologies to the scores of disappointed readers. I have not written much lately, but am currently working on a different frontier of mythology. Those of you who know: you know. That particular piece, however, is not at this time suitable for public consumption. Thus I submit to you, dear readers, a small composition for your select digestion.



THE PROBLEM ALL THE TIME

It had been years
since I shimmied up
a tree, so
I did,
and upon descending
observed
winter light
and the luscious hair
of the fields.

LONELY MEN NEGLECT THEIR WOMEN

I am not that
hungry silhouette
moiling the moon-silence
of the long steppe.
I have not the thin eyes,
nor the wolf-belly;

You have known me.
My spurs
do not pit
other porches in the dark—
My eyes haven’t got
the low black hush
of moths that clutter
the gutters
of lonely men. No,

I have loved you richly.
What more needs man
than the slim revolver
of your tongue and
your six-chamber hips?

A revised edition, more true to the author's original intent.



LAUNCELOT AND THE BOAR

In all ways pursuit turned out to be
shorter
than I would have thought.
I lie
on my back feeling
the hair of the earth
brittle against me
and hearing the
steam spilling from you
into our
cold chapel of air.

Now lying in the gaunt wood
this man will not think of you.
He will grit his teeth,
whisper
I am not maimed,
I am not maimed.

You must be
a wet haunch hung
in a dark pantry,
not a gale of hot breath,
not a crispness
against my lips,
not a red blot
on my pale leg.

Thoughts on growing older.


AMBITION

For when I yammer
of Araby silks, beneath
my tongue simmer
visions of
the motes fluttering
in your morning tea,
and my plough rusticating
under our
tall sweet mulberry.

A working draft of:

LAUNCELOT AND THE BOAR


Mad have I been
licking the wet loam
for you in the gaunt wood,
cocked for your dark blur
amid the brambles.

In all ways pursuit turned out to be
shorter
than I would have thought.
I lie
on my back feeling
the hair of the earth
brittle against me
and hearing the
steam spilling from you
into our
cold chapel of air.

For a moment my
nostrils swoon amid
a hot gale of your breath
and your crisp flesh
against my lips—but now you are
a wet haunch hung
in a dark pantry. For all
that your heart brast
to splinters upon my chest,

I have gained
only
your flaky blood tangled
in my beard.