Seduction at the Pier

As I move the ocean
moves.
When I stop

it rises, seizing
a chance to bellow,


You must be close!


Unflinching I listen.


Lean! You must lean
to see me!


I bow across the rail.


Now hear me warble!

In your distance I sleep.

You stroll, hardly aware.
Were you?

But of ANYONE
I contain multitudes! The Sea!

My towering body!
My undulating heart!

And these shifting bottoms!
Countless secret chambers-
untold plots sunken!



I contemplate
a wave.

Then rise and turn away.

A lapping whisper
arrests my ear:



And this endless mouth...
These smoothest curves...
All arching up to you,
the dry and watching...

Daylight

The owl's immensity
gripped my morning feet.

A winged cat, sailing

on forest breath,

he soared, swooped,

dove in weaving

silence.

I marveled like a child

when he lit.

I craved a seat

on the long pine arm,

to touch

his tawny crown of cool assurance.

He was a daylight gift.

Forever I stood, he sat.

Then he slipped

his sun meditation

like warm honey.

He unfurled and fell

aloft, dreaming again

of night,

when he is king

on the blue-black wind.

A Chelsea Park in Spring

Fly.

The silent twirls
of diving blossoms
are butterflies urged
to kiss the earth.

Spinning down thru Sunday calm
to lay beneath maternal limbs
held out with shading hands,
they are the lightly fallen.

They are the makers
of white petaled floors,
in final flutter
on tiny wings of bloom.

Stand.

Along the fence, lean glistening,
a silent army holds:
one mauve-tipped lavender,
one rich vanilla cream
licked with scarlet flames:

Tulips! Abounding, airing,
fluid and queenlike!
Outstretched beauty
on sleek fuels of green,
rising up to color cupped!

The hollow fingers
loft each flawlessness,
like damsels parading
before the eyes of a city.

Dance.

Full round fragrant bushels-

bold, heavy swaying blooms!

They bounce and tug,
trying at the arching tines
umbrellaed from
an age-thick cherry trunk.

The tree is a stout woman
in heaven's elaborate hat

drooped pink and wide,

content amid her bounty.
She is rich

as a son who walks
the evening in love;

rich as the summer's sea,
washed and perfumed

brilliant by the season.

Sing.

A soft game
of cloud-then-sun
over the breezy clang
of chains, bikes, buses,

and spiked iron gates
which proudly defend
the bench and flowering day.

Gleed out children
exert their right
to run and yell thru April's tossing.

Quiet men
invoke their right
to sit and sigh
thru April's blessing.