2

Down on thee beach
midday to catch
thee thin whisped corner
of a storm.
Who far away,
thee roofs of edges shorn,
But here thee wind plays,
violent, simply with thee waves.
Thee cool run days,
thee leaves falling.
Thee violent end of thee summer
like nature's endless playes.

.
.
.

Dear Woman,
Dear Wife,
who sharpens the poetic edges of this thin life.
To cut a star from heaven,
and place it between our sheets:
wrapped in honey and mildew,
cooked and damp the two in stew to
be devoured by this cold blinking light.
Pulled down from sky like kite
with broken strings.
Hope to fly away forever
but crash and pull
into soft sand
where we lay in the smothering white.

Being devoured in a split second forever
of everything's
all-right.