Fog

The bare legs of the
darkened woods careen
in their brittle bark

but the fog,
slow like lichen,
eats its way across
the sprinkled pavement

Lonely Wisconsin Nights

Lonely Wisconsin Nights

Tonight the great expanse
is dismal juxtaposed
with the tangles
of my heart.

But every breath I
breathe is cold-
as if my lungs
could contain every

shuddering star that
murmurs gentle
lullaby’s to my heart.
As I inhale the

dark Wisconsin sky, I
feel light expel from my
pores, everything I need
is here- Home.

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Lover, I would walk to
the salty ocean shore
until my feet
are blistered-

Ripe with gelid juices,
so my heart may be
ensorcelled by your
flawless eyes

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Love, your eyes empty light,
spare light from heavens
furnaces, warming my
convulsing chest.

It is thy heart thy dove,
gentle as a moth, which
my enamored eyes
doth desire

Eros

The pulp of my heart is plagued,
thy youthful plight is thy disaster.
Love is lethargic, slow to
spin its enticing thread.
While the silk worms
of Eros insidiously weave
together life’s ingredients,
nubile youth await the
dark, cavernous mouth
of bed sheets to swallow
them in a blissful sea.
For thou art beautiful
chastity, but you are
as thin as a cloud, illusive in
your ways. Carrying
tears in your gray hull.

Valentine

if i could have you valentine,
i would drop a golden
apple- those delightful
shimmering spheres of the
illustrious Aphrodite,
whose translucent skin
attracted the harsh
eye of Atalanta,
while in her stupor,
plucked her eyes treat
from a bed of grass
while her beguiling lover
marveled at his newly
won prize- i desire not
to captivate you love, but
know this Valentine,
my heart is an
orchard of
ripening fruit,
awaiting the eager
hand of yours to
reach into my lush
canopies and pluck
my golden heart
from its stem

Bulb

Suspended from the evergreens

amorphous limbs, the glistening

red bulb spins.

As if a tiny spider were

spinning its spittle

tightly round that shiny dome.

With its fishing hook sunk

into the skin of a fissure,

it awaits to be packaged

again. Starring out with comatose

eyes, the bulb hibernates beneath

the creaky wooden stairs

until next year, when it

can be spun in the web

of tradition once again.