Too many
Sycamore afternoons
Have sailed away
On patchwork quilt winds.
And I have planted
Wet kisses upon
Many, many frail suns.
Too many
Of my whispers
Have melted
Into the love-dark emptiness
Of too many orange estuaries,
Unmoored from breath.
The tendrils of rain
Grow transparent roots
Amidst winter-kissed forests,
Amidst the desolation
Of parted lips
Poised on the cusp
Of wordlessness.
Too many cedar scented evenings
Have sailed, man-faced,
Bird-winged,
To the twilight of otherness-
River-dark evenings,
Silent, for the space of a teardrop.
I have seen glistening panthers
Disappear into the mist of songs,
Tracing the relics of desire.
The rain has woven fables
Round my dreams.
My fingers grope
For green sea-songs.
They've felt too many wet dusks
slip through the sieve of their forgetfulness,
Upon the shores of numberless summers.
