Lisolette-Anwe

Not that the ambulance men look like white vultures, but I can see them stooping over the roadkill that they peck at with needles and monitor leads, not that it'll do any good because I can see its eyes bleed every time they pump what's left of its ribcage, not from hope but procedure. I wave through the black van; they lift it on, shrug, "Not much left there, I'm afraid." They cried not.

She stands rooted; a wild tower grazing the translucent shroud at her hip. Her color is purple, passionate for the flower that roots itself in the rock. Her heart is that calm before the storm - steady, brash. Her taste is of suckles born of Summer, her smell an erotic incense to the wind. Her home is a split amid wayward wisps during the golden tide -             and she knows             She outshines the stars,             even to eyes of fire.

                                 A                            sunset                       or two could                bring coming days           slowly around, season     by season, and will pause   on Autumn, watching a myriad of leaves drift softly so, coloring  the grass  below  our feet

* crowd of crows mourn on what fails to be tomorrow when the sun falls forever. *

ii.     we carved animals     from ivory castles     floating in the sun.  we were the doting spring mayflies twisting upon meadows,          wreathing lilies between          toes, breathing -- iii. between the sheets of golden chaff, she whispered,   "let's dance in the rain                          on the cobblestone streets                          before the singing rosebud                          mutes her swollen gown.'                          :     past the shivering        moon we snuck with shadows tucked into dreams.  we were       waltzing toy soldiers,       our peace-broken holster

A Contract of Initials weaved we, as children, happily lost—in forests of insouciance eclipsing neither's light, casting no shadow; (the shells of our previous lives,        gladly trampled underfoot) as she and I marked our intentions (of do not disturb desire)        upon trunks of every palm. the laughter was to be infinite,        was it not?—between the delicate clutches of tense (the afterwards        rapture); our        gasping hearts granting summer no leave, as we let slip the bonds        of our decadent desperations. but as always, dreams give way to realities; grandeur retreats, swiftly— measured re

Dandelions our summer fantasy on the isles; (with heavy heat from an Omnipresent sun) that left snatches of laughter ringing in our ears, and emboldened our hearts— now resides in tactile memory; —held fast by gentle determination to never forget that sweet lesson learned 'neath stars and sun, amid dandelions that tickled my thighs; —to stop needing an excuse to run, and take pleasure of wind in my hair

a promontory; moonlight's downy glow reveals silhouettes entwined

Chicago—Sleeping In a tremulous yawn to rouse her trees, the city awakens; hush of night wanly surrenders to serenades ... a lark's swelling chatter; —weather predicting legions of Early Risers greet the morning sober with dreams of sleep; —schedules keeping, (those poor souls) school-children, ambling in their sweet daze, hopeful of Nature's favor ask; does it snow? does it rain? the sounds of progress invade my urban hamlet and hollow, hasten a pulse, low and increasing from the window I consider your slumber, your bliss; passing contented, the weightless moments in this idle break of day silent, I draw the silken veil

wings of finite beat; does a butterfly live on knowing its ending?