Njinsky's dance in a wood breaking
the sway of shadows beset by gold and fainting pink
to find, to anchor texture eaten in mind by the hungry;
the solace of caring, responsibility, love.

I must find you again.

The heat lays on leaves attached angry as wasp breath
(what do soloists want?)
crossed as the shadows, paths
suggesting intersection where intercourse should be.

You are there, hidden?

Sighting dark, panting, angled traced joinings remembered
the search is restarted, sorry
in the past passings, sure in human memory,
what cloud can expose from the teal

shadows the true home of the music
that widowers duck into when heaven can't
divulge and praying contorts travail
like the insect banging his head
against the ceiling holding no spirits to escape

I enter the wood in dance.




First thought: foolish not to kill, to await the sting believing no chance
when chance floats all around, has proven itself able and unjust;
such fairness stems from superstition.

Are you the wasp?

As fast the disappearance the flown brings the question:
why would I kill something that brought a line in a poem?
And what would be the next gift?

Were you the wasp?

Terrible pain, the point, swelling with internal tears
the continued knowledge in connectedness
the belief that wild can be tamed with a gentle, tutored hand
while the animal remains instinctual, synchronous.

What makes you the wasp?

And dead, are we uniformed,as the wasp,
as to what we left, gave to a world beyond our sight, our soul?
Resting in words, can the vibration
as with the transportation of wings
assure the substance of forever chance?




Shadows play light as invitations
sapient forms enticing my breath
heaving fog of suggested commanded release
sexual unions providing no off-spring in yellow filtered animus scent:
a musk of hoofed retreat and parody

that you wove many times

among them to be them the river of shadows swift
fast to the place of encounter exposed exploding
littered dermis as leaf specks flushed in the fall, mouth to mouth
to the running ground, the boogied

dance of carnal you

anonymous and anxious to be known
after the pairing, the union of light, heat and tongue
probed and released as sweaty leaves blown as spring insects and exhaust
as the panting dirl you are taught in the wood.

You, the message of the wood.