As Mourning Doves Persist

    Nothing eloquent in the tobacco stains that will never resemble sumptuous berry rubies ripening clean on the branch,   his fingers, like stubs, burnt bumblebees crushed. I bury my chin in his beard harsh smoke, stiff scaffolding. Parody in longing for a brittle touch. Hideous proximity to the addiction. Song of the shortened life. Love of the kick. Excerpted from  The Shape of Caught Water available from Red Mountain Press or directly from the author: covelli@cybermesa.com http://redmountainpress.us/

somehwere i have never travelled,gladly beyond any experience,your eyes have their silence: in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me, or which i cannot touch because they are too near your slightest look easily will unclose me though i have closed myself as fingers, you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens (touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose or if your wish be to close me,i and my life will shut very beautifully,suddenly, as when the heart of this flower imagines the snow carefully everywhere descending; nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals the power of your intense fragility: whose texture compels me with the colour of its countries, rendering death and forever with each breathing (i do not know what it is about you that closes and opens;only something in me understands the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses) nobody,not even the rain, has such small hands e.e.cummings

Tray of sun. Little ball of fur. We tend to these animals as if our bodies             sprawled. On carpet. Tray of fur. Little ball of sun.