Sleeping with the Dead
I crawl in between
covers of Leaves of Grass.
Walt puts his hand
on my belly, slips it
down. The century
between us
creates no distance--
his body-map
leads me back
to myself and
way from my
self. As we kiss,
his poems
are candles by my bed.
Nocturne
Alone. When I get to be
alone, I say those two sweet
syllables over and over, roll
them over my tongue. Sure,
sometimes I like being
with people. But people
can be like pizza left out
too long. You just want it
to go away. Alone,
I'm never all that alone.
Hundreds of my selves appear.
We have great conversations
or, better yet, sit quietly
before the window, Dave
and Ansell Collins singing
in the background--
a hummingbird dips down
to a trumpet flower vine,
drink its fill, then
flitters away where it too
can be alone to savor
such sweetness.
In Posse:
Potentially, might be ... 
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