Sacred and ecstatic songs not bound by any one tradition as all contemplative poems are fingers pointing to the same moon. Go to end of page for a listing of archived poems.
6.02.2006
Drenched
I am seared like bacon on the notes of birds, tossed into the pan of the morning.
Clouds attack me with color. The sun's lips cover me and I turn into a bee, pollen hungry, drenched in hallucinations of flowers.
