WORDS, WORDS, WORDS

The room is awash
in words, they pile up
in corners, form untidy stacks
that perpetually threaten collapse,
strewing consonants like shards
of ill broken glass.
It might not be this way, for
words need order, a rubric
in which they are forced to operate.
But here, in a room of poets,
anarchy is the sole grammar,
and in the face of order
someone throws a Molotov cocktail
as we are all consumed
in the flame of self passion.

NIGHT ARRIVES

When we finally allow night
to settle in around us,
and we curl together in anticipation
of sleep, we fit comfortably,
but with no less passion than
when we first did this, but
a passion tempered by less need
for flame, more for warmth
and a gentle caress.
We could not have anticipated this,
and still it seems quite natural,
the fulfillment of the promises
we exchanged, these vows
held sacrosanct and beyond value.
In the morning, when we repeat this,
we know that from that moment
the day still holds infinite promise.

DEFIANCE

The stone defies the flame,
drawing it in
unyielding,
until it is licked
by the snow of winter

The page defies the words,
denying them purchase,
they are flat
without eyes
to see them
the repose
unbroken

The barren earth
defies the king
who orders it fertile
as sand swirls
engulfing
the palace
tearing at its face
casting it
adrift

The beginning
defies surcease
for it is new
in this moment
and in the next
and so on
and on
a wave
on a borderless
sea