This Matter Exists, Like a Broken Window

I want to swim
in luminiferous
aether, backstroke
in lighter air
than real air,
float above
quantum vacuums
that fill empty
with perfumes
everyone yearns for,
because there's no
sensory wading
in aether single,
where gestures
remain uncertain.

From the Crisper

You are fresh grassy

lush leaf & raw tender.

Look at this verdant

bud, burgeoning

& developing, such

flourishing foliage.

You are maturing

and pullulating

recent sprouts.

I call you supple,

from verduous beds --

you are half formed,

pliable, unsophisticated

& perfect for salad.

May Morning

Mountain fog

forces its heavy

emptiness on fungi,

fondles its way up

forest pines and taps

its tendrils against

skies too innocent

to swallow such

steaminess.

She Lies, a Simple Sin

I ask her to take a veil
and hold it up to her face,
simple shadow play

as the dancer Salome wed

to the idea of my head on ice
like the Baptist or Antoinette.

She could drop all seven shrouds
on a visit through the underworld;

but, she shuns my comedy.
She rips the cloth in two and swears
my demise is imminent, but not yet.

She covers me with lace
and plods through deep dark myths with army boots.
She lacks imagination. She's heavy.

Then, she lies like snow on leaves in the south,
a lightness that melts before morning's out.