From Sylvan Scene to Silver Seas

Airborne swimmer, in flight, she does not cling to herself; she is dispersible, prodigious, stunning, desirous and capable of others, of the other woman that she will be, of the other woman she isn’t, of him, of you.                                                                                                                                                –  Hélène Cixous, The Laugh of the Medusa, p. 260

Oak-dark eyes.

Lips, bitten, blossom forth



They ache to explore

That dark and dew-sweet place

Where tongues – like vines – embrace.


The stirring swell of waves

Which urge to break between her thighs

Come to crest,– collapse in salt-edged tides.



Brown bed of earth, still fresh and warm with love,

Now hold me tight

Irradiations, XIV, John Gould Fletcher

It’s time to set ourselves in fertile soil,–
To brace the toil of transfer, thresh
Through wasted weeds with a harvest caress.
Our bodies, bit by frost, are shrunken, frail.

With shovel-hands we’ll dig to loam, once-warm,–
Richer earth exists below
This crystal crust,– depressed with snow
But melting into minerals as we thaw.