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.
