Is she smiling.
Is she fair of face.
Is she startled by
a new year's grace.
Is she handsome.
Is she broad of hip.
Will her legs hold up
along the trip.
Is she haggard.
Is she choking from
troubled waters trick-
ling by her slum.
Is she staring
blankly into space,
clutching ros'ry beads
and faded lace.
In the corner
sat Miss Warner
coyly winking
at the drinking
fool who could have
scored and would have
but stayed too long
with wine and song
the poor bastard
got half-plastered
then whined to boot
the silly brute
please, please don't cry
pull up your fly
dear Mister Hoff
and sleep it off
Needing to mate is
the crushing weight of a river
damned by circumstantial concrete
megatons of man-made stone
holding back rushing rivers
The need is wistful and absurd
the moments are bridges spanning
gorges of nonsense, strands
of river bed, and stands of
stunted trees on shifting ground
Night is both hunter and hunted
seeking quiet places
to give birth to day
sought by blind men who share
their darkness with strangers
Here is my hand, here is my heart,
here is my breath: my gifts
here is my room, here is my bed,
here is our love: gentled waters
washing up against jagged cliffs