Edna St. Vincent Millay

I find a memory that the theater burned
with all my lips have kissed
a savage beauty, larger than life

Launching ships to sail on seas of ether drenched strawberries
worn and mumbling along the halls of shuddering poets in mourning

my tongue is not made of bone,
my tongue is not made of air
my tongue is not silent
it holds the salt of the earth in the hands of a multitude

It was made to clean waits to be washed by your mercy
In launching the edges of an east coast
with hunger as its own mistress
I forget the chapters that were knotted by complexity

There remains a gleaning
around the edges of galaxy from my future pages to roam
glancing to grace and pushing past stars far from
the basket of phrases sought by a general intellect
growing and accumulated in a city
that swells with darkness and shadows
so far is the ocean
so far is the light of unwavering solitude

stories of giving and foam
run rolling across a surf that changed to a stormy sea
and in that storm I will remain
wiping its breath from my eyes

Flutter Sink

To polish the night
In patches of memory
hints of a past

Fastened like dried fruit
A dot of fire swaying around
a cinder of string
flutter sink sultry sugar crust

to polish my skin

a rest-bit for temperance

passages of power spaceships
lines that indicate “lift-off”
silver and gold leaf
gilding and lilting a steady rain

all revolutions exaggerate

relinquishing my sense of purpose

light and volume weave an ambience

while holding the love of someone
gentle, egregious and forlorn is a key
to an alternate universe

Oscar Wilde I

Paper kites intentionally blank geometry on my fingers
a girlhood with three languages

“…and you are beautiful in every single way
words can’t bring me down‚…”

salt and snow
in winds of mysteries love comes and goes
blessings of a rain that was promised but never came

repeating a will to power
much softer sounds as they receive the offering
of generations that speak a language less popular

“…and won’t you ride with me
tonight lets not talk of next summer‚…”
blind spots on the periphery

forever sailing to a wind that is rising
repeating a will to power
much softer sounds as they receive the offering
bolsters a fear that is gone today

You are the sea that sings
We are the river that runs
Seen the days when roads were dust

new mermaids bring about the language that he wrote
a woman of no importance bespeaks the woman of the Victorian Age

my morning jacket will meet us like a dream
spending the day looking for language
another couple of stars in my constellation

“…she is exceedingly handsome‚…”
“…and she reads a good deal i suppose…”
“…she has many resources in herself, many resources…”

and you outlived him because the time was different
in the theatre as audience instead of author
in the days when the audience is the key to a larger drama his words bespeak