... Peggy DoBreer
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FULL FRONTAL a still full moon under cover and darkness of midnight the mere glance of the orb in my direction flirts with the duties that lay before me latches me into its grasp tonight it whets my appetite I am night crawler in my own skin hovering alien looking for prey soft tissue vessel carries fluid dna to inevitable rest upon the hearth my nest bury me bury my head in your thigh on your belly lost in crook of neck and slip of tongue no slight of hand no absent glance at the moon but with full frontal attention I thee wed the still full moon with my pen 60 MPH NIGHT the planet is furiously fanning herself uprooting trees tonight come downing electric lines being drawn too tight exciting sirens in our city while we simultaneously ignite the far away soils of our one globe's orb and in my room the wind carries news and roar of combat hot and loud are thoughts of you the shine off your captain's wings the view through your pilot's dust the hours mounting upon your B23 and the screaming hush of wind at 40 thousand feet and falling falling GEORGIA PEACH The cry of coyote at my canyon feet. A sound that slaps the center of earth like sweet water on a hot greasy skillet. Something that knits the edges of irony together in autumn. Ancient wisdom on pages dog-eared with indifference. Are you goose out of formation? Fish out of school? Are you snapping grease turned to cold paste? Are you length of cotton Left un-spooled with nothing to wrap yourself around, nothing to lean your softness toward? Georgia dirt is red across the nose and cheeks of earth. Deep, warm, rich, red, slow, rosy, southern soil. Georgia on my mind. Main Page
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