Poetry Maybe

I glisten like a new animal,

magical

Slick with the liquid of fresh life

The blood of birth

At might, we crack and sing

sway like the boats in black harbour

I gallop like an animal, heart netted in blood

All thrust of muscle and a wild dirt-smell of me


My skin converses with sensation

Whispers in love,

sharpness, heat, static, silence

Pain rolls over like seasons

blazing, like a blue sky

Desperation is made great by pain…

dreams,

wind that the scent of spruce and pine


I crash,

a wild thing

arching her back



I never know with poems. they are elusive. i don't know if what i write could be called poems, if i commit to them enough. I never when they are done, i feel like i could rewrite them over and over - like they never become exactly what they are somehow.