Saturday, November 8, 2014

just hear

just hear

all of the little leaves flit not yet conscious
you fill the forest with their sound and they
sound your hart breath,
                           sour salt, your blood----the
wet rough of your lips and blue veins 

under olive skin
shrink back when they sense me, 

rustling, as if
those veins shrink from 

the brightest sunlight anyone who is not a poet can 
imagine on a back-lit matte skin not yet
i whisper

are for a little
later on
for now just hear.

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