No Willow Creek Utah is where: no willows weep no creek creeps and the sky is alone. Wet is a long-gone lover and no nahuana hum-hovers above the miragewater dance of desert magic. There is no tractor ping. No blades to boulders sing. No couples toil the rocky soil with grinding hips or slippery lips here among the silken tongues of dusty fullmoon fire. No, there are just rows of snakeskin and stone, and they remain silent. Vernus Abortivus She slipped into bed naked, nestled under a birdsong blanket, and propped herself on a pillow stitched from easterly breezes and spider silk. Calla lilies lulled her and she slept where music ripens on the vine and sweetens the lips of spring, the way grape juice stains a child's smile. Butterfly wings painted arias inside her eyelids and hung them askew in chittering squirrel holes, but it was the art of suicide. This exhibit of buds was born too early - miscarried into a flurry of February, and all that was left on the drifted canvas was a strawberry birthmark. Faithless The night sky snakes by, scratching its underbelly against the leaf litter of fallen clouds in the tree tops. Halos hover above foggy porch lamps - false prophets that anoint midnight with greasy puddles of holy light. But God has bedded down with a lonely housewife and faith is lost in the whispered wind. All that is left is magic and I hold it, bloody and screaming to my craven breast. Main Page This site sponsered by