I broke an egg
soft boiled
watched the yolk
spread
in the whorehouse
of my soul
i thought
of my yolk
spread
over your breast
as I kneel
and urge
over
your sleeping
shape
my mess
your anger
limp disaster hung
itself
on my brittle facade
you left
exit by the door
i now look at
knowing
this egg will
not taste any better
As May was opening the rosebuds,
elder and lilac beginning to bloom,
it was time for the mare to foal.
She’d rest herself, or hobble lazily
after the boy who sang as he led her
to pasture, wading through the meadowflowers.
They wandered back at dusk, bone-tired,
the moon perched on a blue shoulder of sky.
Then the mare lay down,
sweating and trembling, on her straw in the stable.
The drowsy, heavy-bellied cows
surrounded her, waiting, watching, snuffing.
Later, when even the hay slept
and the shaft of the Plough pointed South,
the foal was born. Hours the mare
spent licking the foal with its glue-blind eyes.
And the foal slept at her side,
a heap of feathers ripped from a bed.
Straw never spread as soft as this.
Milk or snow never slept like a foal.
Dawn bounced up in a bright red hat,
waved at the world and skipped away.
Up staggered the foal,
its hooves were jelly – knots of foam.
Then day sniffed with its blue nose
through the open stable window, and found them –
the foal nuzzling its mother,
velvet fumbling for her milk.
Then all the trees were talking at once,
chickens scrabbled in the yard,
like golden flowers
envy withered the last stars.
two glasses unwashed
sat upended fragile in their shine,
opened bourbon
a long mouthful held then swallowed
his bourbon her breakfast,
moving from one room to another
morning cool on skin
she wore only panties,
typewriter on oak
bold keys hold promise
again it was his
the cat shared moved onto lap
as sitting down,
chatter of keys as poetry flowed,
to him she was a disposable muse,
she did not care
being on all fours
fucked from behind
staring at cotton bed linen
her mind could think
without his face ,
all he needed was the mirror to pose,
weave of cotton held a story
as she thought of next poem
he too had release,
it was a kind of love,
they used each other in
different ways
velvetmedia 