Tuesday, July 31, 2012


For W.

There is no end,
southward, on an exhale,
we descend, our path carved
into the tender bones of our unborn

We surrender, every breath,
renders us conscious, worthy of each
lingering gaze, and softened, opened,
you melt
me, and against the resistance of
memory’s insistent tug
we weave this morning’s shocking newness, its
many-hued richness fading
of our collective vision.

You render me, (strength comes in waves), and
we are guided, propelled: southward, in-
where courage comes
on an
inhale, and resistance
fades. There is no
end, only this moment’s luminous start
as it ends, another
blooming beneath the awning of our gaze.

There is no end, only the path
itself, meandering, we merge bone with bone,
desire with desire,
and as we descend,
you become my north, the compass rendered useless
against the steady rhythm of our breath.