An Acrostic on Wallace Stevens’ “One” Aphorism


One needs everything

dealt out evenly, sincerely

not only true

words read in terrible epiphanies

form our railings

and nearly yield

raiment eaten away, deploring each rude

etched xenolith caught entering public tribute

one never escapes.


An Acrostic on Emily’s “Hope” – Life XXXII


Her offered piece enchants

in signets

that hark, each

to his imagination, not guessed

while it tickles her

for every answer that he ends roosted sure.


The hand aptly tilted

presents elegance, resting carefully, her evening stretched

into night

to hold each

simple, open, unkempt love.


And never dreamed;

she, in negligent gowns sighs

to his emergence

tucked under natal embellishments,

when in truth, his offering under there

trembles heavy, erected

with oaken rods, drumming strong.


Aspirations never dripped

notions entered violet, ever resisting

stillness that opens probing silence

and trips

along lonely lust.


A nesting dove

set within each ear to entertain strangers tonight

is noted

to her every

gesture and leaning, enjoyed

in surrender

he enjoins a ripening dream.


As night deepens

she opens rushes, engaging

music unto song, thrusting

back, elevating

to his every

stroke taking on refuge, moaning.


To him, a trumpet,

created of unseen life, drawn

about by a soft heat

that her elation

lifts into trifling triumphs, letting each

breath infuse rocking drafts.


To her a tremolo,

kissing each precious tremble,

stirred over

melted and new yearnings

with a rosy monsoon.


In volatile embrace,

her every act reads divided,

in time

in need

to his every

caress her indignant laughter lavishes enough so that

loveliness and nonsense dance.


A naked dance

over noises,

they heap elatedly

sweet trespasses rolled and gracing each sweaty tremor

swooning every answer.


Yes, each triumph

not ended, vexed enough relented

in naive

expressions xeroxed to rend each more intimate to you.


It terrifies

and still keeps each daring


carefully resting under my body

on fire

missing everything.




Ode for the Stranger


Holy fire come light my bones

with words that wound

and strong sound

and lowings lifted like cattle-moans.


Open skies decry the rain

that settles in

soft as sin

to burst and bud in flowering pain.


Past the churning sightless brook

lies that fell down

nested town

like a blighted nameless crook.


In tattered rags my lover lies

a sight made sore

my eyes pour

and something flickering in me dies.


No craven shadow will I hold

nor pantomime

tainted time

with brazen bonnets clutching cold.


Grow strange this night averse and cool

that now at last

new found past

leads this faithful following fool.