Isn't it just a crack
in the jaw. Displeasure
turns at the clock. Vessel
of turbulence. Center

of wide moated absolution.

The Longing.

In the middle of the night
a craft arrives: skimming
the true liquid dream
and you are in it! Your face!
Is all the time changed--
but you know you're the same
one who hides in the cloak
of those others with their bitten notes.

I will never love anyone else--

you tell me

I won't. I believe it.

The arbitration between stone and petal.

Clapped on the one. Found
favor with the two. I withdrew
my promise of a careful
cup of tea. Give me something

onto which I may hold...is
what they say. Goliath
held everything--David
let it all fly. May the die
fall, the cards do their tip-topple,
the picked on crayons
melt with joy in that final
fat sun. I am no more done

with the swath of crinkled
cloth then I am
with you --my
once more feathered Lamb.

__

This poem rounded the ear of abalone.