Turn me over
in my grave
and set me free,
do not
admonish me or banish me
to your own private hell

Make no promises
you can not keep,
uncork the bottle that forgets time,
let's be drunk
on the sentience of love
and make love
until my lips turn cold
to kisses
and the stream of sunlight

The moonlight and her erstwhile shadow
belong to no one's avail,
but feel all of you,
inside me,
clamoring to be heard

As the washing went round and rotated
She sat on the top and gyrated
As the spinner begun
She said, “This is fun”
And finished her laundry elated

Now American football enthrals
There are plays there are tackles and falls
It’s not stagnant or staid
And it’s usually played
By men with oddly shaped balls

A lady called Margaret Prideaux
Was a pretty but lonely young widow
Though she no longer frowned
When the plumber came round
For she really enjoyed what he did, oh!

I have never been oppressed by a rose
nor feared its thorn...

In your garden my Beloved,
I am but a thought
returning,
a waft of pleasure in your embrace

if you
should fall for the third time,
let the violet crushed
speak no riddles
to a wayward sun,

place an armful of black-eyed susans
in abstraction,
circle its motion
but do not lament the lemon tree,
my Love--
fill the pond with summer lilies,
deep and yellow

skin,
the feel of it,
entering the lost domain
of sensation
skin,
the peeling away
of all that would stand in its way
to be empty of plots and twists
skin,
the magic of touch
and being touched
to enter a ritual
unto itself as old as
creation as new as desire
basking like an otter
under the sun,
skin,
how it soothes the caged
heart, fires the breath
and rocks the ages,
breaks up monotony
and serves the pleasure
of kings and queens,