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Up Shirley Creek For Poems
Bitterbrush and manzanita like a wanton fur,
artemisia and coyotemint for plangent stench,
a madcap jumbled seep for monkshood, columbine and
lily,
little wastrel streams for shad and willow,
sulfur flower, upright, self-possessed,
all the other flowers strewn half drunk all up and down the
mountain.
We go staggering among them, vaulting over boulders,
clambering through buckbrush, oak scrub, alder tangle,
till finally, finally, lying in a muddle under a broad grand
soaring Jeffery pine—
—Poems! Poems for Cristina! Look!
Right here, on top, a poem for your breasts,
for laving them with lips and tongue,
a long poem, an extended poem,
a poem for returning home and waking in the morning.
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And here! A kissing poem,
a kissing-and-not-touching poem,
just mouths, to tease and pant,
for patience and for heat,
and a poem for the fingertips!
Yours, mine-the poet is ambiguous
—fingertips to touch you everywhere,
to make you sigh and shudder,
to trail over ribs and the crinkles of your feet,
to sally up the long dark smile that whispers in your
thighs.
And a poem for mounting, for being mounted!
A poem for me entering, a sonnet for you riding,
for your hair unbound, for your eyes,
a poem for your eyes going away,
going glassy, a poem for your tongue wet between my
lips.
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