By Alysson B. Parker

Sing to my bones,
sweet woman. Tonight
I take leave of my mind
for a noble sky
of lush greenstone. Foundations
cannot hold the constructs
of this deep-
set fog.
Inky midnight approaches
in its soft windy shoes
while the yellow
feather-curtains trace your
fire and I swim
far and beyond
to your music room. I am
mute; please, coax
my tongue.
Can you hear the terns
scraping the sky
somewhere in
the river valley?
Can you hear my gasp
following your lips
as your heat breaks me?


Loss  | Vashon | Services | Art | Poetry | Store | Contact

© 1999 KotaPress All rights reserved.  ISSN 1534-1410
Please direct comments regarding this web site to