I burned my right foot in your sun,

Florida's east coast before Easter.

A pigeon on my hotel window

reminds me you'll be here tomorrow.

I am miserable for the sight of you.

The long drawn breath of my rhythmic

discontent fades across my brow,

leaves me weary and shivering

in a cool morning air, breezing

the curtains like a dry-docked boat

sliding back and forth between night

and day, looking for a place to stay

free from servitude to the tides.

I want you here beside me in the rushes

of a summiting dream, lately

carrying me over the sea's horizon

and into reality... my lips upon your

mouth reluctant to be without wine,

the spirit emanating from your eyes

when silently we speak our desires.

I learned to smile in Daytona; you...

death before dawn...

I

I've grown to like the rain.

Tiny feet of Capricorns

running through an icy field

bounce in sound above my thoughts

floating with the guiding wheel

fortune mesmerized in shock,

the heavy hours away from you.

II

The rain expresses how I feel;

a messenger of all that's clear,

essential to earth's well-being,

a watery fount of childish dreams

immaculating all who envision

their silences, food rich with wine,

consecrated blood, bread and time.

III

I've long enjoyed peaceful days;

a mirror of dewdrops on fire,

in quiet attire dressed for bed,

where sleepy heads aspire the heights

of imaginative delights;

a pool of white linen sun

exhorting, "Life is youth."

IV

And while our hearts are separate,

though only to circumstance,

let's rainy dance to solitude

like blades of dew on linen pools,

confirmed to reason life is full

of silken, glyphic avenues.

Let's be forever loved and new.

It's so hard

living alone.

Even with Thoreau,

Rouseau and Shelley

I am stranded.

Lying in the sun

next a thirteen inch

wide stream

quietly trickling,

three different birds

excuse my sneeze

(I'm allergic

to loneliness),

two lady ducks

flap by

like paperback

sewing machines,

an impish zephyr

soothes ankles

of grass

in March's yellow-green

fields along the

edge of a cedar woods.

Caroling, "Good morning."

to the day,

everything is pleasant...

except you're

a distant truth.

Intaglio

I wrote an intaglio once.

It went to the tune of sun

on a beach strewn with

reflective shells. It grew

into itself, and everyone

who saw it knew what

it meant to be free.

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