should winter call us in
from last year's leaves
- our shifts stitched from the palms
of norway maple -

should we shed oxblood
sleeves & skirts
to slip through the cells
of a woman's brain

still stranded on Mount Olympus
still cloaked in kisses
that pass as clothing

we'll toast her with rusty nails
as we chisel shingles
of silver ice, string them
together with tinsel

into a spangled flapper dress
for me������a Liberache
tuxedo for you

my little soup bowl steams -
the dark lies heavily
on our backs

walk with me on Orion's shoulder
and play flutes cut
from bamboo rushes

wolves' breath
on our necks�����we dive under
a blanket of snow



� 2004 by PJ Nights