The Path, the Fence, the Fields
we walk by the river
talking inside ourselves,
like rhapsodies in two reflections—
different, but the same
the path, the fence, the fields—
unknown obstacles that stare
through then, and now, beyond—
have heard love chime before
ahead the river breaks
going separate ways,
but we stick to the same side
in the willow woods
and farms of flooded fields,
with ascension stroking
each reaction
phosphorous in the rain
Velvet Tangerine
i was drinking tea with Dali
in an underworld cafe,
arguing down his table
on General Franco’s hand,
when The Persistence Of Memory
that melts my pocket watch
made time less rigid;
so i fell with names and numbers
into old obsidian dreams—
where your long legs pointed
from six to twelve,
then nine to three
when you bent them—
for me to play and pleasure
each exotic segment;
Dali left the table
to meet Picasso in Paris,
while my Benzedrine mind replaced
the soft and spent infinity of your face
* * *