I spent
one minute
kissing the sun
and shalln't forget just how radiant it was when
bewildered to stillness on the cusp of your lips,

shining its shine
for just that quiet minute.




More Poetic Guts
(Thinking to death)


I struggle
love poems from poetic guts
that
have long since
lost their touch--


there's nothing
brash, ferocious, bold
in coy and complex
metaphor
spoken softly, slowly; lowly
rolled from tongues that scald with--


trust me, darling, say it
not,
but let me watch and break my--

god, I gurgle crimson truths
in these poetic throes for you.
It spills and warms
cool fingertips,

in complex-
-ity, is plain,
or beautiful, where said truths contradict
and in their starcrossed middle
lips lull your--