Reflection

i plead guilty!
as i stared at you this morning,
the saffron light
tenderly caressed your flesh,
your curves combusted cravings-
i came half-a-step closer.

my rival came too,
touching you passionately.
you smiled at him, eyes closed.
he drew you near as i-
inhaling, kissing your skin.

i nearly killed him-
my doppelganger.

Work Day Blues

the grand old poem
called "work day" came round
again, without any
connivance from me.
i looked out the window
and saw the faded
gray pavement where just
lately I kissed you.

it seemed as if your
departure came without
any interval
since your arrival-
i wasn't prepared
to see you scamper
away so quickly.

i wondered if i'd
dreamed you, but i saw
you took time to take
your breakfast, lunch, hand-
bag and coffee cup

your departure came
fast as falling snow.
it's a wonder i
didn't lose my sani-
ty; one instant you're
beside me, the next
you have disappeared.

weekdays love this rhyme
so well, they never
tire of repeating
it, so sweet and whole-
some is the work day,
simple and moder-
ate, satisfacto-
ry and perfect, that
her children never
weary of it either.

what a poem! an
epic in blank verse
enriched with a mill-
ion tinkling rhymes.
it is solid beau-
ty. it has been sub-
jected to the vic-
issitudes of mill-
ions of years and not
a single super-
fluous moment is
left unmolested.

Dusty Lane to Nirvana

i never know
where a poem about my
soulmate is going.
it's like a car
driven by claude rains,
an unreleased movie,
a ticking bomb
with eight-point-three
seconds left before detonation.

i never know
what love might whisper
in my ear
because its sibilants are
syllable over syllable-
a speaking in tongues-
words aching to be born.
every line is a dead
reckoning, a strategy
for getting so lost in her
that no gps could ever locate me-
each stanza is a dusty
lane to nirvana.

Anesthesia

in the violent
radiance of her beauty,
light fills my retinas,
mind, nerves, bones- every cell-
with explosions of color.

my senses dissolve
into shimmering lakes
on snow-capped mountains-
only in her absence does
the anesthesia wane.

Bathroom Love

she leaves the bathroom-
leaves our pre-game huddle-
and takes her position
on the field of life.

within minutes
i too am on the gridiron, pressing south,
straight-arming hoar-windowed cars
that lunge from driveways and side-streets.

i plunge through the line of scrimmage
triggered by the snap of a traffic light
and charge down field
zig-zagging through the faceless opponent.

breathless, i cross the goal line,
drop onto our bed,
delivering to her what i have carried intact
all the way from the bathroom.

Love and How It Gets that Way

to walk in love
through the everybody else crowd,
protected by love,
lulled by love,
dulled by love,
the crowd itself a love,
no single object anywhere that is not love,
the breath love,
love, love everywhere
and still not enough.

and then there's no love,
or little love or less love or more love,
but love, always love,
and if you have love
or you don't have love
it is the love that counts
and love makes love,
but what makes love
make love?

Winter Wheat

a field of winter wheat
reminds me
our love is still in its infancy-
a florid fact mythology mutters:

it stretches forth its arms,
tiny fingers
reaching toward eternity-
fresh curls springing from its bald brow.