The Crouching Poems

Untitled Girl

He was wandering
lonely and touch starved
when he saw her.
A small girl on the edge of the forest
with hair like woodsmoke
and breasts like worlds.

She walked in circles.
He hid in ferns, spying,

In moonlight she would speak
opening a ragged diary
offering words to the night
like moths
they fluttered into patterns
before vanishing into mystery.

Then one time
she saw him
and didn't run.

Even then he could not approach
even then
as he was split in half
by danger and desire
like a clementine ripped apart
by a hungry child
like a woman opened up
by a man.

The next night he heard her
across the lake composing.
Again, a far off glance
lingering into gaze.

The lake rippled with the movement
of monsters
lurking in the deep.

He made a camp on his side,
and a song came to him,
and he sang it quietly
to himself.

And waited.



Scalloped feathers in rococo gold
carved from some hard wood -
ash or cherry -
rape the formal frame of the doorway.

At watch in the upper corners
pink cherubs armed with arrows and bows,
like obscene stamen nestled
in ornate petals.

I am shocked at how fierce they are
their sniper focus the blank stare of the assassin
I am shot through
the lusty pain is real.

I hurl over the threshold
and She is next to me
thrusting forward into this
beautiful empty room.

I catch a glimpse of Her surprise
as we find there is no floor in here
and can't tell if we are falling
or flying.



To the flame I say:
be reasonable.

The flame
holds me by the neck
laughing, dancing
charges into my mouth and
down my throat
exploding me from the inside.

In glowing pieces I hear the flame whisper
fuck you and your clever brain.
I am from the sun
where there is no thought
only flares and a storming
heat you can never hold.

Sorry it keeps you awake,