Sonnet XXXII

The brown and ivory were swiftly fanned
across my pillow, mixed with blue and pink,
in hair and skin as soft as liquid ink
beneath my touch, beneath my gentle hand
and rough and questing teeth and tongue that spanned
across the taste of milk with tea--I think--
a little sweet and not too hot to drink,
and sugar-dusted cookies, warm and bland.

It is too strong to stay unspoken long,
too secret and too personal to share,
and too innately felt to run away.
I keep the tastes and colors--is that wrong?--
awash along my teeth with fragile care
and running through my fingers while I pray.

February 25

It is the first day people go outside,
when the warm breezes first begin to float
over the fields that springtime sun has dried,
when the fall leaves work free of winter bloat.
It is too hot to wear my heavy coat.
I, in my sweater, do my best to hide;
I, with each stockinged foot within its sheath,
panting and sweating, try to take no note.
Clothes must stay on--I'm ugly underneath.

Sonnet XXXI: Bells

When I hear the timepiece clicking and echoing along my walk, I am lost in thought and, flicking away the present, start to talk of the ears who heard the sounding years before we did.

The pounding of time inside my fragile skull drives down, and its uncaring pull is persistent.

Situations of our invention make us hear the past; the whispers of the dear children in the long lost nations are telling me the pealing haze that kept them fed throughout their days.

Exercise

I have not forgotten him
singing among the stones
though the words are growing dim
and each graceful, well-formed limb
dwindles to ghostly bones.

I have not forgotten him--
his expression, sweet but grim--
numinous, precious drones--
though the words are growing dim
with the days and months that skim
over abandoned thrones.

I have not forgotten him.

Every note that built his hymn
presses and softly groans,
though the words are growing dim.

Not with any passing whim
will I forget his moans:
I have not forgotten him
though the words are growing dim.

Sonnet XXX: To Senex

Senex, take your lawful glances
and go away; your watchful run
spoils my appetite and chances
and frightens my beloved one.
I must feed before his shading--
flowers are already fading;
the plum will rot and fall, too sweet
for my discerning tongue to eat.
Looking to me, wildly begging
for death, he wishes to be culled
before he has his senses dulled
by experiences pegging
him into holes. We must preserve
his beauty on its upward curve.

Sonnet XXIX: Apples

I,
debauched on knowing apples,
move little and despise my soul,
groaning as the Angel grapples my body.

Pieces of me,
whole in themselves,
fall over railings,
advertising tiny failings that build up into larger sins.

I cannot act;
the Angel wins by default.

The apples flower above me,
whispering to me about their strength,
and I can see how they make me sick;
their power,
however,
is the food I need to eat to learn,
to know,
to lead.

Sonnet XXVIII: Crowd

I like being in a crowded and busy place,
yet all alone,
recognized by no one,
shrouded by anonymity,
unknown.

Seeing people in their pleasure or their pain
brings me a measure of peace;
because they are not mine,
I am detached.

It is a sign of our liberty
that strangers talk freely
where my ears may hear.

I joy in it;
I have no fear here.

It is at home that dangers are everywhere
and people know the ways
my thoughts and feelings go.