This One Has Legs

The wine is warm from the stove
I would be fine cooking
When she wears so little
Around her waist; my hands
Tremble, the thought of burn
A raw infusion so deep:
The oil takes pains
To embody her flavor.

Astronaut Ice Cream

Fingers entwined finding
Their way through the crystalline
Darkness; through it
To the light passing
Overhead, the transition
Between the days and nights
The circuitous rule of planets
The want of the wax
And the fall of the wane.
An impulse that wrings a masterpiece
From blood-soaked tissue; that is all.

Once in the air, the separation
Two hands find reason
To be apart; and so they learn
How good it really was
To be stricken with embrace
The warmth of someone’s skin.
A master plan only desiccates
The dream to be a gardener.

Hydrate

You pour facts in my glass
Tell me to drink,
For health depends on it. However woozy I get,
These promises cannot change
The dream I suckle to
Like words mashed to pulp
In a backroom fantasy
Before silicon…
Third floor tenement insomnia
Delivered a library to eager eyes.

Does a comet stop
To admire the blue,
Changing its path in turn?
And turn…and turn
It continues beyond all attraction.
So must I in my own
Universe, follow the course
Laid out before I opened
My own eyes, and after.