I stir you in my stomach as
a poison. The past speaks
openly from lying lips
and withering treats, the berries
that spin the words from my wine,
the drink to the page,
the burn to the urge. The fire
to its purge, the desire
to its sleep, in the moments below
and the sorrows still higher.

I stir in you like summer in
a slim and broken
saucer. Our thirsty
lips a trembling offer
to our hands.
I swim in you like all moths
draw a flame to their exposure,
and then the hopefulness of uninvited closure.

this reminds me...it's time to write again.

great to see you around.