Tropical Storm
Hand me over to the night.
I am tired and drooping
like a starved palm tree.
My leaves brush the dry ground
in horror and fill the darkness
with a sibilant moan.
I cannot do this much longer,
this pull and ebb,
this game if dice.
I just want to sway
in the fragrant breeze,
my head thrown back
to let the moon fill my mouth
like a pineapple slice.
Hand me over, then,
to the night
if you will not give in to me.
You sit beneath my velvet shade
and tremble to hear my voice of bark.
If you will not caress me,
if you will not shimmer at my touch,
hand me over.
Hand me to the night.
Time in Reverse
Regrets fill a bucket to the rim,
cold and twitching water over,
a dark thread of an edge.
I can see their faces,
those sunken paper war-ships
that are no more than
handfuls of seaweed
clinging to my fingers.
I plunge hands into the
loose cells of their filling,
ripping out scalpelled glances,
cowering syllables into
silent submission.
With one look I
have numbered them all.
Sheets of dated cross-stitch
I long to rip out.
Threads of entrails gleaming
wet on the floor.
