Part Two

                   Two warm edges have soaked the rags

                   as we peel back this layered fleshy heart.

                   We find two organic fingers there

                   pointing in opposite directions.

                   The coy moon lubricates our walls like a

                   pale slug on her nightly trek west

                   and down, only this time she carries

                   a heavy bag.

                   She will not glow here again, but leaves

                   a glistening trail for us to follow,

                   a scratchy stale beam of words that

                   carries us into our exilic solitudes.

                   You laugh away and I cannot breathe.

                   The pulling tides have become confused.  They ebb

                   when they should flow.  This drought is darker

                   than before, the pavement more torn.

                   There is no easy start from here, the engine

                   has grown cold, the shaken map destroyed.

                   This river flows both toward us and away.                

         

                   We have games to play later in the day,

                   and we’ll push for unrelated victories. 

                   Your dark oracle runs to you like coffee,

                   mine is river water I chase with an empty cup.

                   I’m not allowed your romantic secrets,

                   banished only into mine.  You have become

                   a beautiful golden harvest and I,

                   an ever turning golden key. 

                   9-22-11