The poems and four random photos

COMING TO OUR SENSES AGAIN

When I touch you, all is mystery.

Ripples through the skin

Unlock one thousand doors

Within, stretches a history

Almost too much to pin

Down, to clutch, fingertips

Whorling, whirling, waking to

Knowing angels, breathing in the wind.

When I see you, see you,

See you clearly, really see

You there, before me, morning

Wound round you, nearly

Pushing up, neat as a hemline,

Every time I see you, me, we, thee,

These, together without sound,

Dancing eyes in the field of delight.

When I hear you, speaking,

Singing, loosing the girdle

Of language, untying the verbs

That wind around us

Like the ghosts of kings,

Full and with their million stories

Moving on your lips, alive again.

A music flaunted before time.

Your mouth moving to shape the fields

Where words are the kingdom and sound

The castle keep.

When I smell you, in the room.

Nothing in the room.

Proust tells us that when we find

A memory from smell alone,

It is the most powerful.

It is the one most kind,

The true bone from which

The flesh is grown to grace

Again. Rooms of you fill and fall

Away to empty space.

A chemical disturbance of the mind.

Nothing in the room, in the room,

When I smell you.

When I taste you, mouth to

Mouth or drawing with the tongue

To find the salty landscapes there,

There is suddenly no room for

Sense to be other than the

Slippery buds unveiling where

All love has wrung itself

From pore the pour against

The door of teeth, the core

Pretends at cooling, but melts

Before the lips and celebrates

Such food that is ourselves.

FALLING INTO THE FIELD OF TIME

From the edge of the boat

We could see the stars

Reflected in the water. We knew the

Many names of the moon and sang

To the fishes there below, the ones

Who swallowed stars and dreamed

The night sky beneath the sea.

The fish beieve we are their rapture

As we sing. We believe the fish

To be gems of priceless value,

Wandering through the mind,

Bearing the names of the seas.

That night we slept on deck

Listening to the wind and waves

Tell stories of fire on

Islands so far away that one

Can but learn their names,

To visit these places is simply

Not possible in a single lifetime.

When dawn came we could no longer

Tell if we were male or female.

Deer gather at our feet. We

Feed them from bowls. We see

Death with its flocks of birds

Wheel and circle overhead.

We decide to make music forever.

We dance and sail on.

HARPS

These harps that collect

In the eddies of lovemaking,

We find them, days later,

Still strung with the silk

Strings that bound us so together.

I carefully lift them from

The stream, thinking they

Have belonged to angels.

They are hung with wet and

The sweet smell of childhood,

Bright with wagons and the

Ghosts of dogs basking near

The door yeard.

They shine so, it is hard

To believe they were once

Ourselves and we played upon them,

Full and drenced in passion,

Smiles, music on our lips.

I reach to touch the part

That makes the music and all

Is water once again, a riffle,

Then a rapid, then a tumbling.

Over and over again until the

Room is great with longing,

The river spreading itself

Before me llike a song.