MY LOVER’S
EYES
Are nothing
like the folded blue of glaciers,
his lips are
not chasms of truth
opening the
secret heart of the earth.
Nor do the
alluvial desert plains
eroding the
patient godliness of mountains
nursing the
clouds, offer nourishment
for this kiss.
His breast is
not the fecund mudflats
stinking at
low tide,
nor are his
nipples small salt domes
capping the
decayed leaf matter and dinosaurs,
because his
teeth push up through the diatomaceous earth.
His teeth
grind down the patience of pines
as he speaks,
hiding his vulnerable cheeks
behind a
barricade of hair and fangs.
9/19/90 could it be 92? I was in NM at the time
must be another love poem to John, CPITS
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