The Territory

Drop the clothes
like a habit.
Harps scratch the background but
don’t pretend
this ain’t orchestral ‘cept
after when you curve around my spine
caramel & estapol
miracle nothing experts that
quivering lip of sleep
the true deep, delicious borders of love
or
some more dangerous trust that
locks/frees us toward some vagabond sun.
I won’t fearfully hunt for
naught more than a mate wrapped in gravity.
The priests preen,
god created all this exceptionality
on her day off. Heart-bugs jitter.
 
From my ridges of uncertainty
you threaten everything I hold clear.
Living alone talk
to the island woman, charmed
under everything story is glory.
You’re something like a really smart chocolate.
 
Shelves of weather
impossible (we approach 3 years)
racks of sax,
carved wind locked in a sacred, scared garden.
Our positions aloft
this countdown
mysteries of the cart
so human one could live.

Twist 

Surprise is rarely the prize we anticipated.
Attractive lights led me over the precipice,
I woke up this morning
torn. Suck at the coffee, rain
on the whole grain,
coast of toast. The birds & children squeal
across a blank page of sheet music.
New car for unit 3, knee spasms at #5.
 
A spare being -
far from the pinnacles of this species,
whatever I face is minor -
pimples & pirates
compared to 8-year old Tim’s fear...
the 100m freestyle.
 
Freestyle is an aspiration
a finish line I can make this day
that turns on a southerly,
grows with the competence
the arrogance
of a leaf.

© Copyright, 2012, Les Wicks.
All rights reserved.