A DAY

and in

the future and past of rounded and compact, and the as yet unborn children.

I am a simple lass, parading braid and plait down neck and back

falling into dream of green and hollows

Plant seeds of generation for the future in the empty and vulgar spheres

Illumined as pockets of gold mines when we touch a hip or shoulder and our bodies remember

when there was no beginning

inside and out there is a luminosity a touch of where the pink hollow musk excites

Night within the rotted root of elm where truffles grow wild.

Mad excited boars dig deep for precious things

deep in the thyme and savory of our emotions.

Dreams that once began where the sun stood still

children softly ran in the cry of the Moon

rock in the ultraviolet rhyme

protect square answers

recreate the cloth of knowing and of seeing and of why

the moon, it rocks, as the stars of dawn or Venus

wings in flight

around the core of day.

                                          Feb 7 1986 eve

JUST SO

to stop within this tale or any other, as dream or Arabian fantasy

creating halftones within today

running down labyrinths

beginning before

concrete yet illusive

balancing pink spheres of light as tunnels or stalagmites kicking

the start of breath, multifaceted

to move forward and then slightly back

child of innocence

out in the Caribbean

where the waves wash in just so

A BRIDGE

tokens we erect to towers and the cantilever at dawn

wood wheel paddles turning the grist to grind the stone

cutting closer to the bone and staff

Of grain

seeds freed by tossing seeds

from chaff to rough and sturdy bread

a sourdough starter reaching back with salt to other times

where the sun burned hotter, and we race the Noonday Devotion

homage to

rain and summer when the Moon hangs low in August next auburn sky and you want Nothing but

Summer and the caves of a three forked sigh rising

racing random geometrics in a Biedermeier snow

Electric spike as waves in oscillation

random shell of leisure and preoccupation

balance and doing well

que habla que habla of twisted ties and token rides

playing.

graffiti and subway grey, take the pearly shell as oysters,

twisted from the plebiscite

Into the canter of dream and desire

as rich as fruit or an orange

believing and the wake of pebbles

mosaic dreams

Orange from the cold

......reaching full bloom in the fluorescents where green tones distort life

lampshades with pink mercury vapor trailing

a child's rosy cheeks

roses stripped of thorns trained against a banister

lemon citric...

as a healing balm pressed to cooling draughts

Playing between the garden path Rich, as a Turkish tapestry

and round.

on the subway uptown (with distortion 2/8/86)