Poets are Humans, Too

• Cabine du Sucre

When i die,

I will go to the sugar house.

that place

glace

no one can tell the difference

between my body

and the supple sacchrine shine
of the boiling sap

we squeeze fat luxuries
out
from the dying glory of the maples.

Queen Winter,

---her crystal starry-ness coaxing carbon eclipse,

watermarking Douglass firs and constellation furriers ---


lowers me


My bier of snow
to finalize my perfection.

• in a dry and weary land

i rest

my temple

against the sinuture

of your mouth


my eyes, heavy-dry,

press parched patterns of death

            lashes tapping out my need


on the cool liveliness of your cheek


Willa Cather's characters -



-their infinitude winking across my horizon like prairie grass -

bless this pleasure


Dense duty flashes his face to the door of our oasis
A protest.