On Rising Hard, Pressed for Words, Having Dreamt Again of Mrs. Ashdown

In every dream
you’re leading me on
all of Asia, I’m
Marco Polo, gone
into you, far from
what love I’ve known, you
know the kind, one time
shown only to one
kind, those handsome guys
now I’m blind, my tongue
following your silk
road to that hidden
city in which grows
every bold bloom
a man can behold
but it’s that finer
grove I’m headed to
folds of wet lilies
I’m seeking, eating
every blossom

My Neopatra
a newer kind of
fabled beauty, what
I wouldn’t do to
unearth you, uproot
your fertile crescent
dig in, plant in it
my fistfuls of seed
so deeply entombed
only the sunset
will know their journey
your spheres are planets
each globe turned gently
to face us when stars
fail and even the
constellations fall
I’ve all I need, all
these comparisons
trawling horizons
hoping I’ll find some
lest heaven crash down