Last night
I heard the tap and hum
of haddock mating in the deep.
They dive,
it seems, to distant depths
as if the atmospheric weight
could tense
their roe to spasm forth
and in the sport of lowly spawn
they beat
the rattle of a drum
as baritone cicadas might.
In lust,
with rhythms from the flesh,
they thread the needled cloth of night

A singularity is a point in a black hole of infinite density so that all matter and energy is crushed together so there is nothing between us


There is nothing between us
No skin
No flesh
No blood
No bone.

We are a transient dance etched into the membrane of being.
We are softly laced with the delicate threads of string theory.
We exist in dimensions you could hardly guess at.
We play in a place where there is no Yin or Yang;
Only pure Chi: indivisible.

And all the raging, raving beauty of the world declares
That love is not something you make or do, but
That love is who you are, and often
Oh, so very often
Love is letting go.
So,
No,

There is nothing between us
No skin
No Flesh
No blood
No bone.

It is still tonight
and the melted moon
sheds a silver peace
on dazzled rooftops.

No distant trains,
no siren streets,
no drunken song
from men too married for their liking.
even small animals only whisper their calls
and all is well.

I am at peace
heavy limbs
ache with joy.
A bed beckons
a soft of sheets
a warmth of stories.

”I will arise and go now”(1)
to the upper room
to dream of seas and shells
and listen all night
to the surf’s soft sighing

(1) From the lake isle of Innesfree by WB Yeats

Again the dark morning...

This is my time
Before the rub and pace of life thickens to frenzy;
With hope like starlings murmuring in my blood.

Nothing happens.
The soul is reappointed
that is all.
These feelings feed me with their grace.

“In the beginning was the word…”

Maybe…

but Is not being first
With words following after like a beggar?
There are so many things before the word
And more again before the stumbling tongue.

Yet this is where I spend my stillness;
Somewhere after the dawn of time
Sometime before the birth of being,
Where substance hasn’t quite existed yet.
Here I search for words.
Here,
In the melting,
I touch the new made voice of God

No I will not fall in love with you
I will not wake in nights and days thrumming the elastic pulse of your flesh
I will not make crusades to cry in the crux and crucible of your moist longing
I will not stammer at your bedside begging or taking
I will not break your heart
I will not make small prayers in rosary threads of vigil
I will not embarrass your family with the noises of my body
I will not bend, fold, mutilate or spindle the punch card of your soul
I will not lust crushed and broken on the stone beneath your window
I will not hide in shadows to see other men tapping to your doorway
I will not utter cries in ecstasy, fear or isolation
I will not stumble in your dark kitchen
I will not bribe your friends for secret knowledge
I will not watch you sleeping
I will not pander to your whimpering sighs
I will not be cast a drift in your aching moans to find the height and apex of that perfect storm
I will not give you gullible lies or fractured truths
I will not fall floating in the chasm of your eyes
I will not bring you tea

I will regret these things
Regret them forever.

I am undone and all my wanton ways are nothing
my wishes now but clay. I am the dry husk of a man
defeated by machinery.

Ah, but should the mercy of your redemptive tears
tattoo my face and moist forgiveness give me hope
would there be awakening.

The damp soil beneath your naked toes
fevers at your flesh to send you reeling
into deeper dark adventures.

Until the final breathless gasp
the voice of angels crying in your skin
Awakens my fertile humanity.

Leave those toys and that blessed car
we will wallow in the damp grass.