it isn�t his body there
that draws you in
not that hip
nor that foot

~

this coastland smoothes stones
on one end � sheds shale on the other

the sharp edges, the ones that lay round
in your hand

������they are both of us, aren�t they?

the little bit of white quartz
that wants to be an easter egg
warm in a child�s hand

shale I'd drop for a razor clam
� sea foam on your cheek �

����to make you trust me at your throat

~

hammocks and chairs twisted from forsythia
branches � my great-grandfather�s chimney
is the smoke stack of the forest �

his stone walls curve around moss beds

���������moss beds, our beds

~

quail eggs for breakfast, acorn pancakes
�����I�m a child of the woods

wood you

��������������leave the city?

���would you join me in my bed?


� 2004 by PJ Nights