there’s something about the words at night

the way they move

feels different

from here.

standing above a table’s frosted glass, a vase of scarlet red roses sit breathing,

leaning, in looking-glass still water. A gaze outside to a darkened January sky exists as the expansive reference point of a winter’s night.

from here

eyes can comfortably hold the dabbling nature of the way an artist creates–the yellow scattered sticky notes, the curling edged paper of yoga class sequences, the brown leather journal—those words softly captured inside a year’s worth of now satiated lines, resting here softly in its own complete memory.

from here

it all transforms into the patience of casual creative flow rather than the petulance of perturbed cluttered form.

And intimacy continues on as the courtship between one’s head, heart and voice.

from here

words glide upstream through a throat. the somewhat strain reminds a jaw to loosen

as the staccato high note vibration echoes womanly and alive, like the dignified ringing gift that is the sound of a woman’s satisfied personal pleasure.

while a heart pounds beneath,

breath and sound move up from belt, to chest, to throat, escaping through parted lips

And from here

all the while

I’m singing,

and drafting

in my head.