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December DybbukI endure winter's
chilly blear with
fragile dreams of sizzling passion.
Erotic coincidence places my breast
against your palm.
Somewhere beyond the halo
of this furtive kitchen heat,
our significant others
sip chardonnay,
make polite conversation.
Virgin olive oil sparkles and roils
as I hide behind vegetable chores,
delicately peel papery skin
from fat lobes of white garlic.
Feel you coming into the simmering room
where silent possibilities bubble.
Canto Blanco
Pristine gulls, like scraps of torn paper,
spin above red tile rooflines.
Storm meringue scuds ashore
from crashing blue winter waves.
Chill December sun makes
tiny vernal ponds steam.
We kiss beneath alabaster stars,
a slender curve of the polar-pale moon.
Love writes itself upon the night using
passion's undiluted ink and a smoking quill pen.
Poetry Magazine |