Landscape As Lover





Your nakedness my native ground,
a wild forgotten garden gone to seed, 
your wheaten undulations, mountains rilled  
to breasts of brown by slow dark-silted time.

Ancient disciplines of listening trilled
your secret valleys with lark song, inlaid
each poppy and pale iris with ruby and jade
chiaroscuro, blossoms for each weed.

As minstrel, I would amber you in sound.
Were I a poet I would turn you on
a rhythmic lathe to rhyme.
An artist, I would layer your dark skies

outrageously in tints of amaranth and fuchsia,
brush the chalcedony ocean of your thighs.
Were I a virtuoso I would lean
your body’s umber swollen cello,

balanced on one foot, against mine
to hear your hollows resonate, and strum
your tautest string like this,
then pluck some lower, darker tone...

But I’m a lover, glutted by minutia.
I glory in you dust, your fallow
landscape of half-opened lips, your softest loam,
the raindrop of your kiss.