No Salt On Stem

no salt on stem

no less a wound for pound or penny-pinched.

tree-lined as dined the magpie and the wren

on fallen leaves as grieves transparency;

through eyes that dared to climb beyond reproach

above all else; as bends the naked lie of seasons laughter,

love dumb as mist behind the curtain of despair

hides father from the cockroach in its' shell;

how far away the silver from the birch?

the stinging itch tells nothing of such meaning.

in forest glazed with juice of avenging scorn

hindsight alone cannot itself be pawned;

from the incest of the body in the sky

body-mass to the fat lips of the cloud,

pine-needle torn for the morals in the gut

somewhere between the pillow and the sheet;

where climbs the salted odour of the loin?

the tree that whistles headstrong in a curse?

the powder and the finger; the point of stars;

love is love; a shadow on the lung;