these fuselage dreams
aloft on long, bright, thin-air wings
once heralds of a blind new time,
now icons--better buried
deep
your dark indulgent thoughts
found responsibly reprehensible
betray prim civilization's modernesque composures;
the naked stranger dreamt-of
tells the truth
she hooks her fingers on his pant-line
in perpetuity, til books turn dust
when, words being dead,
she shall lust again in flesh
an earnest, bare-bosomed stare
from childhood adolescence
felt thick, like a midnight moonlit fog
in the grip of an anger only children feel,
pure overfull passion spilling out
emptied of mature hostility, adult malice, resentment
--all this in a glance. bank sharp
to miss the trees come close
for looking back, and all about
feb '11
