Saw you walking barefoot
taking a long look
at the new moon’s eyelid

later spread
sleep-fallen, naked in your dark hair
asleep but not oblivious
of the unslept unsleeping
elsewhere

Tonight I think
no poetry
will serve

Syntax of rendition:

verb pilots the plane
adverb modifies action

verb force – feeds noun
submerges the subject
noun is choking
verb   disgraced   goes on doing

now diagram the sentence

Adrienne Rich

serves up my heart

March 22, 2020

She walks into my life legs first, a long drink of water in the desert of my thirties. Her shoes are red; her eyes are green. She’s an Italian flag in occupied territory, and I fall for her like Paris. She mixes my metaphors like a martini and serves up my heart tartare. They all do. Every time. They have to. It’s that kind of story.

Catherynne M. Valente
The Bread We Eat in Dreams

FRIDAY

December 20, 2019

I have fallen into Friday and
never slept, like deep scars
hanging white the exhaust of
memory. Where long before
dawn, I missed the sheets
on an unmade bed, porcine
of undressed skin stitching
through threads. Fingers felt
to the length of hips where
denim thumbed the black, I
startle the moonrise giving
pale corseted with my window.
But it was easy to memorize
the nothing without feeling for
its wrinkle or smooth, where
I bore the hollow, got skinny in
my limbs stilling a girl from
spinning herself out of shadow.

Lana Bella

Swamp

August 31, 2014

floatingintheair

The man who drowns himself
then lives wants me
but is frightened. He fears
the dark pools he has to swim
through to find me,
imagines them bottomless
and thick with strange fish.
He fears leaving his house
behind, or worse, trying to strap
it to his back and losing
it midway, watching it sink
to purple depths,
small girlish fingers
slipping out of reach.

(Rachel Kerr)