Hiking Nevada

Breezing the tips of crisp green needles
Hairy in the pines on craggy hills
Catching the alpine drift as it stings
The lungs at the peak of jagged spills
Into the mouth of the valley-

Clouds misting the rocks
Of every alley
Where the fog slides downward
In a brisk bite of wind,
Numbing bones and skin exposed
To the cold lick of snow
In the breeze tongue

Soaking in the stoic life
Of wet green winter arms
Careening the lip
Of cliffs hung
With strings of ice

Composing Darkness

I don't feel like writing
But I've gotta hang myself
From the lamp anyway
To see what lights-

I compose the best on steamy nights
When confusion moves
In an utter of darkness
When power is formless
Gasp of feeling-
Then hold it hard
As the senses reeling
Slow till the mind
Can give it form

Till the visions can be painted
Till the clay becomes David
Till the mood is reincarnated
Words
Hewn through language by the motion
Of feelings mined
From intuited gold-

Her Mind's Cloth

The wind wraps gentle arms
beneath her breasts
and surrounds
in a galaxy of sweet caress-

A slow breeze blowing
ignites the spark
that sleeps in her heart-

With eyes of knowing
she sees the dark
and pierces
the night lace
as if it was woven
inside her mind's cloth,

threading each nerve
of the wind's curve
with all the refined
will of a needle
eye-