SummerIt is morning.Summer by Rhyiant
Your breath hums through me; I feel it
crashing against each of the hairs on my arm.
Your foot touches mine
in the darkness of bed.
Were I a younger man, I'd rouse you
with a storm of lips, bring you up
from sleep into the daytime.
I'd trickle fingertips across your stomach,
touching your face
until your eyes dawned against mine.
I'd sing to you, hoarse with affection
But I am not a younger man;
I see you at rest, and
I am at rest.
I lie in wait to watch for daylight
to fill you up and bring you to me.
MidwinterI like to imagine that,Midwinter by Rhyiant
in the beginning,
there was stillness.
I have never known stillness, nor silence;
my body is a tangle of heat and wetness.
Within, I whirl and wail -
and it does not stop.
None of us knows what it is to be quiet,
not like our grandmother's mothers,
the bodies below ground -
and dust has a habit of whispering.
My great grandmother is a ghost
in my grandmother’s lungs.
Her father has been a tree
for longer than I’ve been alive.
AutumnConsider, a moment, the birthing of grass.Autumn by Rhyiant
There is a message there:
unknowingly, we sprawl and grow;
each of us is grass.
We reach blindly
and, groping, find
each other or sand;
or we bury ourselves
skin-deep in the skin
of the earth;
or we search, in the way that grass searches for oceans;
in dreams, we see it:
a body of dusks –
and we wake, forgetting
the inevitable death-place,
that place where God was born.
This is a mercy;
mystery burns a hole in the body through which all meaning leaks.
Confronted by God,
one becomes arbitrary.
SpringAs a child, I climbed trees,Spring by Rhyiant
pressed lips to branch,
peeled back bark
My mother, the realist, would watch me
cradled by chinaberries
and she'd tap windows to draw me down;
she did not trust the earth,
not like a child can.
I stripped boughs for swords
to fight off bees
and ants, the monsters
of my primal flesh-memory.
I buried my feet in sand
and asked, of course,
for tallness. I wished for branches
and birds' nests and
I whispered to dead leaves,
gave them each names
(these repeating often,
as there were billions)
and gave them sanctuary
under my bed,
on the windows
and when I grew older,
I scattered them all across Florida,
as much a mother to them
as their own.
Spilled WineHe dances a kind of geniusSpilled Wine by iamPoetry
against white walls;
all prim and branched out
The fireplace, calm as the setting sun,
Fingers sweep each other
collecting dead skin and dialogue
We giggle like short-lived kids
playing with drugs
His smile vintage, lips, dry as cocoa mix
now moist as dew kissed grass
The table acquaints us
panties wilt to the obese rug
among spilled wine and cradled glass