crossing among these tired bodies,

we view the purple planet

busy pulsating,

shadows fleeting across the prison node

shadows lost in this labyrinth house of overgrown legs

arms and hearts,

vying for earth's empty places to rest,

uncovered.

some next sunset may escape our eyes

if we are still counting numbers,

wild daisies leading goldfish to the lake,

then let us follow this myth leading us to that lake,

no matter sunlight or moonlight,

for dreams and the magic of courage

help illuminate the way.

a poet’s eyes are busy gazing,

fingers busy stirring,

blending the mixture.

a poet’s breasts are busy heaving,

tongue busy enticing,

savoring the mixture.

once is never enough,

rest grows impatient with minutes wasted.

for it is the coming together that conceives

Songs to Sing,

Poems to Chant,

and Journeys to Walk

separately,

with each other.

Bisbee, 1977