From Time To Time

here is one:

 

for s.l.

she, yes she, that blonde
with her tight ***, high
on her legs, she kissed
the indifferent negro
with all her lips on
his white teeth, whiter
than the snow, in the middle
of the station, in the middle
of the city that squeaks
from the gout in its tracks.

demons shriek in the blood
of who sees it,
curls rise and
in the grottoes wells
arise and flounders on
the trees, mellow
in the steaming mist
like well cooked white
asparagus.

pilot flames catch the fire
behind frosted windows and
fill the rooms with the glow
of the tropics
at the craving that is hampered
by the sills.

no warmer carving,
this winter, feigned
child of the greenhouse,
than this girl
with her long mooncolored
manes, mirroring
in shiny ebony.

moreandless moreandless
56-60, M
Feb 9, 2010