17-08-2009 RIP Mr. Limpett

The stars fade in. On pounding breasts we bear
their werewolf winks and watch them feast upon
the twilight in our hearts. But body scares
much easier than mind. Remember dawn

and let night thump and squeek and clatter. We
need not fully explain each noise within
its dark embrace, demanding certainty
with fish-eyed terror. Far beyond your skin

such monsters lurk in tales – with rigid shapes
cast badly. Yet hair clambers up your spine
before you feel their breath upon your nape.
Flickering gasps escape your lips. From mine

“Ah” turns to “Ha” and for a moment I
forget my fear you’ll someday say goodbye.

Jughead is the Worst Wingman Ever

You cherish petals and the stems and all
the soil that clings between the roots. You care
for every bud and green aphid that crawls
beneath its leaves. Your love is plenty. Life

is plenty – good enough to fill the world
with winds that sing cool and sting like a knife
upon the skin. What flowerpot would shake
fists at a breeze that bears the seeds the curled

lip of an empty vase rejected? Break
this terracotta shell. Its shards first burst
upon the potter’s wheel. But do not tear
your heart out with the same fingers. They’re cursed

to love and love and love as dark moons pry
in vain and stars dance clockwise in the sky.