THIN PLACES
THIN PLACES
Collected Poems: 1974-2019
INSANITY PEPPERS
FALLING IN LOVE WITH WOMEN WHO WHISTLE
If I were a hard-bellied boy
with a knife in my boot,
and you were whistling Irish tunes
into the red autumn air,
I know that winter would be a moon out of season,
a gesture of time on its way to somewhere else.
That is how men
fall in love with women who whistle.
We follow the songs inward
led by the arc-dance in your eyes.
It is a journey’s image of a journey
like wet night wind,
like monthly blood on my sheets,
or your fresh perfume
wild on my hands this September morning.
with a knife in my boot,
and you were whistling Irish tunes
into the red autumn air,
I know that winter would be a moon out of season,
a gesture of time on its way to somewhere else.
That is how men
fall in love with women who whistle.
We follow the songs inward
led by the arc-dance in your eyes.
It is a journey’s image of a journey
like wet night wind,
like monthly blood on my sheets,
or your fresh perfume
wild on my hands this September morning.
HANDS ON THE WALL
It doesn't matter
who has touched you.
Take photos of his hands
and shine them on the clouds.
Tattoo them on your wildly sweet skin.
Tape their shadows to your wall
like trophies from the hunt.
When night sounds wake you
and your eyes are wide ---
when no one else
answers your voice with
muscle nor sound ---
when the hands that
seemed so strong
are vanished memories ---
my touch will be
only a breath away ---
even if I am miles
and worlds
and lifetimes away.
SLEEPING IN YOUR BED
BUT NOT ASLEEP
BUT NOT ASLEEP
It is easier to sleep
when you are here
in bed
beside me.
in bed
beside me.
That sounds so simple –-
but it's not.
but it's not.
When you are gone
nothing works the same.
Clocks all become liars.
The wind blows too strong
or too weak.
The moon is much too loud.
nothing works the same.
Clocks all become liars.
The wind blows too strong
or too weak.
The moon is much too loud.
I know that other men
could not sleep ---
made insomniacs by the
sweet torture of your
small naked warmth.
could not sleep ---
made insomniacs by the
sweet torture of your
small naked warmth.
I am not such a man.
Instead ---
I am kept awake by the
dark, quiet chill left behind
while you are gone.
The smell of all of you
makes me frantic.
dark, quiet chill left behind
while you are gone.
The smell of all of you
makes me frantic.
I imagine the shadow of your body
beneath me on the sheet
and I become an inside-out man.
and I become an inside-out man.
I too know your sweet torture ---
but sleep,
when it settles on my old age
like your hair across my bare chest,
comes not from the memory of you ---
but sleep,
when it settles on my old age
like your hair across my bare chest,
comes not from the memory of you ---
It comes from the all of you.
The all of you.
The all of you.
DREAM
I dreamt that you wrapped around me,
your bare legs strong and rippling,
then open and giving ---
my tongue inside you,
tasting your ocean,
tasting your sky,
exploding your pink sun
like a nova birthing a small cosmos.
On the edge of morning
the sweet salt of you
begins to wake me ---
my cock hard
when all else is soft.
I want to taste.
I want to sleep.
Just a little more.
Inside you,
just a little longer ---
fully awake
but still asleep.
IT WOULD BE OK
Sometimes ---
just sometimes ---
it would be OK
for you to hold me
just a second longer.
it would be OK
for you to hold me
just a second longer.
Let the coffee boil over.
Let the grilled cheese burn to ashes.
Let the sun and moon splash into an ocean,
drowning all but one small light.
drowning all but one small light.
Let atoms collide and explode,
pulverizing the planet beneath our feet.
pulverizing the planet beneath our feet.
It would be OK
for just a second more.
for just a second more.
Sometimes ---
just sometimes.
just sometimes.
Then again.
And again.
BECAUSE NO ONE WRITES
LOVE LETTERS ANY MORE
LOVE LETTERS ANY MORE
When you come to kiss me
in a bed that is not my own,
know that my heart has stopped
and all clocks
have ceased to beat.
know that my heart has stopped
and all clocks
have ceased to beat.
But touch a finger to my chest
and there you'll feel the
dance of letters
that spell no known words ---
and there you'll feel the
dance of letters
that spell no known words ---
alphabets without language ---
all that I could ever say
could ever say
could ever say ---
could ever say
could ever say ---
without making a sound.
HOW HE SEES HER
In the morning
when the nudging, caressing musk of sleep
is as warm on the skin
as sex or birth.
is as warm on the skin
as sex or birth.
In the morning
when the perfect eyesight of
vodka and cigarettes,
awakens to the soft blurred vision
of what comes next.
when the perfect eyesight of
vodka and cigarettes,
awakens to the soft blurred vision
of what comes next.
In the morning
When her hair explodes as a wild dawn
careless, reckless,
a tangle of possibilities that no man
can ever completely understand.
When her hair explodes as a wild dawn
careless, reckless,
a tangle of possibilities that no man
can ever completely understand.
That is how he sees her.
She is most beautiful
When she thinks she is least.
When she thinks she is least.
MOMENT OF EVERYTHING
Staring at the
back of the door.
back of the door.
Will it open?
Will it be you?