Handful & Gristle
I leave broken crumbs on the snow
to find my way back from the House of Love
with its flash of honey and taste of more.
But it does no good because birds become
love’s agents cleaning scene sublime
so I climb love’s stairs to see what’s there.
There’s flesh of course in nipple and breast
and time spanned with decades of breath
and hands held while walking.
Closets of kisses with laughter after
memories mounted in rows on the walls
showing small slices of all.
In the attic packed in acid and grime
unpleasant times and emotional crimes
boxed and mostly forgotten.
The hidden treasures are in plain sight,
the constant companion, the sitting in silence,
and most especial the hugs.
The rent costs your heart, the lease is quite long,
and the place needs constant repair,
but what a view.
And oh, the homemade stew.
We aprentess, she manages the hive, i keep my head in a bird.
Two tufted titties land the same time as two nuthatches
just when she says, what birds? I dont see any,
and a female with a hint of red, house finch perhaps,
lands way down the viewing deck of a pond blue
on account of what all
First time i personally ideed
wood ducks, just saw the dames. I honed in
on one with my noclers. Thin white ring about her
delicate eyes, like a map.
Neither leads nor detracts
from the vision of her i follow
to the grace of a brook
summer tries to dry.
Goldenrod, stuck among hostia leaves,
like by a witch, to keep between book pages, bees
delight in annually. This is it she says exactly
when i declare now is the time.
FIN (for now)