untitled

I am caught between
Sky and earth
And my world cants
Beneath my feet,
Octagonally.
A roof,
Shingles beneath
Trim waiting
Paintbrush in my hand.
This is how I am
As I think of you
With the sun
Such a circle as to
Embarrass me with its
Perfection
And the line of
Trees both bronchial
And like cilia,
My perimeter.
My world slides beneath
My feet
And I am careful
As I walk
Just as I am careful
When I think of you
As the paint spreads
Like a shine of slime
So clean and perfect
From my steady hand.
My mind is steady now,
Focused on you,
And I think of
Raspberries
And I am suddenly giddy.
A silly thought,
I will banish it
In a minute
For if I think of it
Too long
I may lose my balance
And fall
To the unforgiving earth
Which does not consider
Raspberries when the trees
Are in such submission.
I think
(Despite myself)
Of your breasts
And (despite myself)
Of your nipples
Which bewitch me
With the notion of raspberries.
How silly.
I am 55
And on a roof
And the trees have submitted
To winter
But the cottonwoods are
Difficult, always slow
To accept the inevitable.
Just as I am slow
To move away from the thought
Of raspberries
And how you live within your art
And how your art dances through you
And how my balancing act
On this roof
Is a kind of artless
Performance
As is my life.
My world lies beneath my feet,
Octagonal,
And when I piss over
The side
The drops are suddenly
So clear as to smash me into
Some kind of awakening:
They are
Globules
Arcing out
Perfectly round
Moving so fast,
Falling like Icarus
From a demented sky
And they are green
On the edges
And yellow
In the middle
And clear on the upper side.
I am thinking now
Of raspberries
Which are not globules
Nor green
Nor yellow
Nor clear
And with my world
Canting beneath my feet
Nothing is suddenly clear
Except
My love for
You
And you
And you.
Even if
Perchance
Your nipples might not
Resemble
Raspberries
As mine
Most certainly
Do not.

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