it is with my body,
without walls, encircled by the wooded, sculling river.
night bugs sing sweet, sticky love songs,
while copper streetlight noise falls and mingles with the stars.
silent trees so solid in their hold of earth,
emit warm ghosts that taste of dirt.
racy moonlight strokes bare fingers and faces,
skims back sweaters, carves belly button shadows.
our body, mine and Yours,
a yin-yang recycling breath.

​

Published in Young Raven's Literary Review

Your watched hand rests on my thigh,
fingers dip.
Contend with hard edges –
reach around for seatbelt steadiness.
Discover new compartments
when prone and sliding open.
 
After I’m with you,
I have to readjust all my mirrors.
 
I’m a dripping doorway,
puddling on the floor.
Sensing residual friction heat,
you skillfully stroke my ego while
taking pictures of ceilings;
the decorated limits
play at your periphery.
 
Map memories,
a timeline view of emotion
colours locations past,
neatly frames each of our twenty-four hours.
 
While googling substitutions,
I slip in lust,
and land in Love.

​

Published in Rat's Ass Review

My calendar is full of hearts.
I track how drippy I was last night.
My foot! You licked my wetness all the way up my leg.
All my clothes are inside out in each other,
past layers unwrapped.
Biscuits! have an exclamation and a capital in this new life.
Placing yesterday’s worries in the bin
I stick my nose in your beard,
edged with flowers.
Streetlight cum stains,
pools on my cheeks.
I’m red scented – you are wonder.
Counting as I cut the tops of strawberries,
I reach seven or eight million gods and think
This has promise.
 

Published in Rat's Ass Review

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​

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The Watch
 
Happy good still night
 
plays like morning, but not quite.
In between first and second sleep
when we touch in the watch.
Tea cold, snow quiet –
waking up as half of a leg sandwich
with furry cat topping.
 
Happy good morning still, again.

 

Published in Rat's Ass Review

 

 

 

Lovesick
 

To write is to find reason for pause, to pull out of the trash those heartfelt love songs,

reflect on yesterday's phone call and all the things I could have said but

 

you know she's the one. You're putting cliché to work ordering rings so they fit.

The tiny circle by your name and face green-light my hunger.

 

Salivating after your three dots to appear and as you type,

eating each word for breakfast, lunch, dinner and afters in bed.

 

I may regurgitate them all over the carpet, and when I do there

will be a trail of crusty promises showing the way to never go.

​

Published in Verse-Virtual