In Arms Still Warm

I dreamt your flesh
draped across mine, cell to cell,
Like grass on the undulating earth.
Tiny blades of lust
crept along the carpet
tickling the forgotten into wakefulness
and I could hear my own moaning;
a hunger as plaintive as an African infant’s plight,
deprived of sustenance for far too long,
shrinking and shriveling, starving and wasting.
But I dreamt your hands entering into my skin
removing the dark aloneness.
I awoke with a start
lying in arms
still warm.

Something Old or Something New

Was this sudden crush of pressure
something old or new;
this dread that descended on me
from the nucleus of contentment.
As unexpected as a rose in December,
The sudden seepage of fear’s tears
running down the cracks of yesterday.

Fear born under the lamplight of peace
started to climb the pole of reminiscence.
Ancient is that sting meted out with
a cold winds breath
its icy hands tight around the throat of today’s happiness.

Thorns against the torn flesh,
as tender as the first time
Something unexpected unearthed
this great wound of mine
searching, searching for a clue,
Is it something old or is it something new?

Midnight Fingers of December

I stand naked

against the midnight fingers of December.

They should be frigid,

but instead are uncharacteristically balmy,

practicing their spring song across my waiting flesh.

Like a keyboard aching to spill music, skin senses creation

and I emerge slightly out of tune.

leaving the indoor warmth of winter.

Letting the night touch the black and white of me,

the flat and sharp of me with its moonless creeping....

and something springs and something sings.

What is it about the pores and keys that just lie waiting

for the hand of creation to slip against a slender ivory thought;

where they birth the finger's seed....

slightly out of tune

but singing their practice song for Spring across my flesh.