6. BANE POETRY
ink like silk before my pen
each letter a silvery thread
(that's why I still write in cursive, see)
I unravel silence which is tangled
lightly, as if to bandaid thoughts mangled
my pen
the prophet
my hand
the wielder
strive for accuracy or allow half-
assed sribbles to mingle
I hope they ferment
in the seat of my pocket
is not poetry usually drunk?
7. MOONCHILD, LOVER
on a sling my moon hangs
deep in the belly of the sky
a pendulum for night birds
prey and pretty young girls
a compass by which two
unlikely intrepid children
dancing barefoot in the buttery sand
traverse, as a rule
we decided we were women when we
threw open arms, palms
to mouth. Laughter is spilling out
and always like a gong.
Telling this and that about
how we like it best until
at once we run dry of enthuse
quiet in reverie, content to
stare at dregs of coffee a glance
at the hovering moon
(which would never betray our lightest admissions)
and we are on the ball, rolling, again
