tress fort

sun’s up, no denying

seagull prints on snow

there’s no light-house

just tired smoke

cobalt regrets,

and whistles

of arctic

drafting over

the small breasts

covering her thin ribs

like sheaths of gauze

her bones, his piano

he said, her pulse

was the bass

—–

his rhythm turns me on

squirming feet are delight

let’s sift the ashes

into will-power’s urn

seal it with shivers

the wax of white

knuckles

i never make mistakes

so let’s do this again

and again and

again