(between parentheses)

after R.S.
dear poet,

there is nothing
about this metaphor:

that we are children
reaching hands
in the hard calloused
eyes of the ferryman who
steers between the winks
of channel-markers
into gloamed twilight;
that we step
quietly on the creaking
planks of secrets and
drink in coastlines
like sweetwater;
and that we finally
follow stars hot
& hard as July earth
until each
reaches home again.

moody and ethereal

i watch the shadows crawl
down my legs, darkened
impositions; drink in
the day’s dying, gulps
of hardly concealed longing
squeezed down a closed throat
to land restively
in the core of me.
as if remembering
a hard-fought night,
i taste them now and again
in the back of my mouth,
both bitter and sickly sweet.