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on leaving harry the soft tread, bouncing boyish step of tweed and oxford announcing himself with a greeting of sometimes obscure origin the grin in his eyes all at once penetrating, endearing, disarming. i wait for that rush of mind he delivers at speeds of mach 2 or 3, wondering where he'll take me this time. a short excursion to selected microcosm or perhaps a whole universe, maybe a few absolute abstracts on the side hold the ketchup ! (he'll question the spelling of catsup, because that's what he loves to do) arcane references, integrational theory, scitheosophilosophy (a new word i have dedicated to him) with much good humor we played with much love i remember and my tear for him is as big as the ocean Love rushes in precisely where fools tread My Love lies sleeping, upstairs, in her bed. On sheets scented with us. On a decade and one, of wish and want. On a matress of trepidation, sitting on a frame of hope springs eternal. Like the saying goes the boy gets the girl and the mouse eats the cheese and the cheese stands alone. As must we all. My Love lies sleeping, upstairs, in her bed Pinhead she calls me pinhead and i suppose she's right because my head does seem a little small but we measured the damn thing anyway and it turned out (making adjustments for hair and all) to be bigger than hers i still tell her it's smaller, but it has a lot more density. she agrees. Treed Treed sunlit square of warmed wood floor invites me barefoot. Feet placed, toes like roots. The moving shadows of the leaves seem to be from my branches. One Day Weeding The leaves of the red rose rambling cast deep shadows on the ground. The wounded bird, hidden, but for the chance sunlit shaft reflecting in her frightened eye. As I reach into the thorny stems, Pain The flow of redness, the color of bloom. As I lift her from her sharp sanctuary, As my fingers close around her breast, The scent of the white rose rambling Washes over us in healing waves. The Date "Whoa", she says. "You're over the speed limit", as her foot presses mine to the floor. The carousel spins faster, threatening to loose us from our mounts and fling us into a world now changed and only vaguely familiar. Holding our breaths and holding hands, we jump.

Except, perhaps The poet knows of words not in any language. Except, perhaps, the language of truth. The soul knows of intimacies the heart has yet to discover. Except, perhaps, the heart wanting to be known. The world knows nothing. Except, perhaps, things made manifest by the poet, and the soul.

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