Golden Fall

Sun-light plays on the leaves,
turning their green into gold like a leprauchan.

I close my eyes, basking in the warmth of the sun,
as once I basked in the warmth of your body;

your fingers playing upon my thighs,
turning them into gold,

waiting to be molded by the shape of your lips
and worn by your sighs.

Rabbit Fur

Silk cords fasten and unfasten themselves around your waist,
pink and crimson playing beneath my fingers,
burrowing into the warmth of you,
like the pink wetness of rabbit's nose,
and your hair's brown strands tickles the back of my palm.

"I think I love you" you whisper,
and my lips freeze; only my hand remains suspended in motion,
furrowing itself into crevices that conceal the mystery of creation
they say.

I say nothing, allowing you to translate my silence into the language of your desires.

"Coward" you say.

I always knew that sex contained the truth.

Sestina Exercise, Unedited

Sepia-tones seeped into our lives like mud;
fresh flower decompose softly into its brown hearth,
wet from our tears and salty like the cookies
you once baked, for our anniversary - remember?
I almost choked on the chips, black knobs
harder than your nipples, chilled beneath my fingers.

Your mouth was warm and wet on my fingers,
as our boots tramped through the mud.
Afterwards, we drank tea in a kitchen with iron door-knobs.
Your hair smelled of New England as we wrapped around each other by the hearth,
and I promised myself I would always remember.
But the images faded; I savor the crumbs, but the cookies

have been eaten by summer spats and late nights at the office. Damn the cookies!
I want the willows of your hair in between my fingers,
the press of your lips on my cheek whispering, "Remember? Remember?"
I could fade into the mud,
to ashes sleeping in the hearth,
never to feel the pleasure of iron door-knobs.

But instead I must remember
the feel of the knobs
of your breasts, our feet squelched with mud,
the saltiness of your cookies,
the lace patterns of our fingers,
holding each other by the hearth.

I dreamt last night of your body by the hearth;
marble thighs and a silver whisper, "Remember? Remember?",
and I was burrowing my lips into the beauty of your fingers,
my fingers felt for your breasts' knobs,
and I was going to eat them like cookies,
but when my tongue licked, you turned into mud,

wet, brown mud
that smoldered of shit like a half-kindled hearth. Worse than the salt-cookies
I remember. My fingers froze in the mud of your body;lips sealed to your nipple-knobs.

I am still trying to decide if this was a nightmare, or a dream of paradise.

Untitled Exercise of Procrastination

"You look so beautiful" they say, and their words are darting into me like serpent-tongues, or diamonds serating skin upon her fingers. In an arbor of golden palm-leaves, I learned to love the pink slivers of your tongue darting into me like a knife, and the blood was almost purple when it trickled down my thighs - the color of ripe figs, green seeds sweetly sucked between our teeth.

The trees are leave-less now. They shiver in the sun. I spin webs of glass around my fingers, trying not to flinch at the touch of handshakes. The murmuring creases of my dress remind me of winds in summer forests.

I walk into the cold night for a smoke and solitude, trying to ignore the shimmer of evergreens reflected upon marble statues that are lit by installations whose strangeness is called art. If I believed in love, maybe I would cry. Instead I bite my lip and take a long drag on the dwindling grey stub, watching its ashes pollute the sidewalk like a car.