the wine

now my heart is red,

a shadow in my hand unfolding.

(azeda booth)

my love goes in and out of me,

(azeda booth)

my love is going.

a room in the turning sheets,

now

a moon in the trees,

a shadow unfolding in my hand,

the light falling on the leaves

and the moon in the tangled trees unfolding.

                                                    poet 

,so in a, p i a n o

                                                    is

a special interior held

                                                   from thee.

—————————————————

what sudden leap

from here to there

what sudden leap

a hare

a small wind blows

a small wind blows

a small window closed

                                      were in air

                                      a song,

goes,

shhh,

        see,

shhh,

        softly,

shhh,

        see,

shhh and softly now

                                      the wind blows against

the leaning

                     trees,

our hearts troubled

                                      or and see,

the wind in trees goes

shhh.

a song

in turning strings

and wind or

on lips

again,

my love,

singing or

the wind is

moving in

me again

the wind is moving me.

To the edge

Of the curtain

From the edge

Of the bed

Where you are

Sleeping.

Where I was sleeping with you.

I have come from

The sheets and

Followed the soft

Light out of

The room

Into the light

Of another

Room,

With the cool

Shadows remembering

You in bed pushing

Yourself toward

Morning like a

Little boat on

A soft lake out

From the shore,

But I close the door

And watch you

Turnover in

The light.

In the bathroom.

And the tub is full of hairs.

I am very sleepy.

A slug melts in salt.

Dirty dishes in the sink.

What did I eat today?

But a long robe is hanging

On the chair.

And I am only waiting for someone else

To talk.

The owl

Going who

Suddenly to

An owl somewhere,

Or

Who

Disappeared,

In the dark arms

Of the dark trees, loudly

Once cried

And cried.

Simply              on

A table,                        now,

Now

What                is,

Is

It but a table

Now.  But a table.

They leave

noises

with them.

The ceilings are left open.

Not to

mention

you breathing in the stove,

Plath.

Picking apples from

the eating worms

Thinking

what don’t I mean

dirt.

Listening to the radio or

stereo.                                                                                Sounds better.

We see a man in a black suit and tie, with white shirt, enter stage right and stop center.  He places his hands on the sides of his head and pulls his head off and kicks it stage left.

Blackout.

Curtain.