the mississippi river empties into the gulf, by Lucille Clifton (1996)

and the gulf enters the sea and so forth,
none of them emptying anything,
all of them carrying yesterday
forever on their white tipped backs,
all of them dragging forward tomorrow.
it is the great circulation
of the earth's body, like the blood
of the gods, this river in which the past
is always flowing. every water
is the same water coming round.
everyday someone is standing on the edge
of this river, staring into time,
whispering mistakenly:
only here. only now

Moonburn, by Marge Piercy (1997)

I stayed under the moon too long.
I am silvered with lust.

Dreams flick like minnows through my eyes.
My voice is trees tossing in the wind.

I loose myself like a flock of blackbirds
storming into your face.

My lightest touch leaves blue prints,
bruises on your mind.

Desire sandpapers your skin
so thin I read the veins and arteries

maps of routes I will travel
till I lodge in your spine.

The night is our fur.
We curl inside it licking.

from “Thorow” by Susan Howe (1990)

lift off slow

wake up
lift off slow
clouds blow
lights and shadows
play on the ceiling
lying in bed thinking
chocolate ice cream licking
sweet hindi music streaming
sun shining warm blanket folding
holding
the phone that connects me to you