Whoever holds up the universe
is blowing bubbles again.
Rough waters, one silver body trying
to rise above another.
Wet with the wash of morning,
I hear you singing. Your voice
is breathless and blue. Surge forward
you say. Lean in blind, I reply.
If I could touch my desire, I’d drown it. LS
Far down river in New Orleans,
The river rises, high, in the summer.
Her hands finger the dirty water,
it's the lifeblood in her veins.
The grass is trimmed low near the
muddy beds where the water rushes by.
Her hands, wet, dry in the sunlight
as she stares at a little girl. LS
"A poet looks at the world the way a man looks at a woman."