Spider Veins

(Photo from seeinglight.deviantart.com.)

Spider veins (red, flowing pulses)
spread wider as the cartilage in my ear
thins.

To the mirror, they are only
tubes from one vessel to the next —

in my head, they are flowerless roots
ripped from a mossbed by the river.

Poets

Eliot built

a beautiful empire

in our minds, worn

like a wasteland and

resonant, youthful;

freed Poets at the expense

of books and shelves

in libraries of work

processed, emotion

broken. Eight sterlings,

under wage: The poet,

his mind or body

vast and dusty like

a skyscraper among

skyscrapers.

Naked At Night

(Photo from zanauardian.deviantart.com)

Star-imagined body is
Blank and white in the night, cold
But covered beneath the shade of trees
The rain has not yet pierced.
A single droplet falls on my shoulder blade.

Toes wriggle in the soft soil, burrowing
Beneath a root which buried orange leaves and dyes skin red.
Weightless they raise dirt and refuse
Up into the tree branches. Bare before the earth,
Plastic sandals capsize beneath my thighs.

Rain dies in leaves cold against
My naked thighs. I am wet and calm
When these stars rise and fall upon my face.

Earring

(Photo from http://innerdiameter.deviantart.com/.)

A chest-worn opal earring hangs low
On your shoulder. It weighs like a lemon from
A branch round, ripe I'll tongue
Lick the gold frame bottom to top
Slipping between metal and your neck.

Backing sharp with sweat
I suckle the wings and unscrew.

A Night Task

I.
Our backs are pegged one shoulder blade
upon the other, your weight held
by my slim frame.

The sound of sirens across your skin
moves me away, your back
collapsing beneath the fall of a sheet.

A light zip-lines across the ceiling
to the dresser. Again, I lie awake.

II.
Hands hang off the bed.
I push the blanket with my elbows
and slide down onto the carpet.

Sunday's newspaper remains
in a z-shape spread under the bed
next to a bent mechanical pencil
and a notepad. Dust and a rubber
band blow inches away when I
exhale, diaphragm cramping.

Beneath the window,
petunias planted in
a terracotta pot droop.
Shriveled blueberries
clump in the dirt.

When I tire, I heave beneath
the weight of my concave back.

III.
Across the street, pink haze
falls over an three-and-half story
apartment complex, the roof
caved in at the east end where
a tree rested on the gutter
for eight months before
ripping up its roots.

I rub away

the carpet imprint from my face,
tracing maroon-yellowed veins
behind my eyes.

When the alarm beeps,
you roll over and

the chasm of your
soundless yawn deepens,
tongue forming your lips.
Un-wakened thoughts huddle
in the corners of your mouth.

Where will we go, honey,
what are we doing?