like a whirlpool eddie
the cortex turn collects
its hands like lucky peices
like the pitted dice
or a slick well fondled
card More valued then
photographs

I step against this edge
of calling night and smell
the sweet spice of needles
and hot earthen layers that
run like deep rivulets in
small valleys I feel the
fingers of the brush and
tenderling trees sense
more then hear the thick
foliage swollen in summer
suns and I think of all
the treasures stacked like
kindling in the dreamhouse
Tinderbox of talismans

and the you
and the I
we know
Our ghost greet touch

we are pages worn
on moonwhite skins
our voices like the surf
in its brittle shells
I can hold you against
my shoulder
and fall away