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Truth...
Truth Lay on 56th Street
A naked bulb, assaults
its flat light, uncompromised
washes out the
colors of our skin.
In a city of lights, wrestling-in these beams,
against sheets grasping, hands clasp,
and
riding, riding- toes busy burrowing into imaginary sand.
Under a wooden window frame, slit open,
into the plain room, drifts midnight sounds
oil slicked smells of hot city streets
spanked by rain,
they run up five-flights,
snuggle in the bed to tussle with an apricot scent,
clinging faint against nape
of neck
and upon moist breasts.
Push-pulls groove us
into shared nothingness-
destroys
the colors
beats down barriers,
contrivances of distant minds,
and insists, and insists
we
are truly other
than all the troubles,
tomorrow's sunlight
will paint onto our skin.
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Wind
Tripper runs-
Touches
flags, leafs, faces-
Brushes
prairies, hills, lapping waters,
Fans
cattle, fire, lovers clinging-
Takes
birds, sounds, clouds,
Leaves
the rooted, scars,
dreams-
me.
Cold Is
Russian gymnasiums
sparse with tiny vaulting girls;
Frosty puffs of breath
and
stomping feet.
Freezing sleet blowing
across white-capped lakes.
A hospital's, waiting-
for-the-news,
room.
Friends betrayed by greed,
a liar's gossip.
The barren empty fridge-
you, always alone
in a car.
Staring into glacial
blue eyes that reject
and only briefly reflect,
a warm hope.
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