Benches: Three Poems

The Butterfly Conservatory and Her

The flapping of her wings, minor disquietings
Of heart, heart
When touched succumbs, wing-first


Deerfield Academy and You

Maybe any tranquil object will eventually attract
Desire to itself, at least the desire for impetus, your heart beating brazenly
Gives it all away, you’ll not be unmoved
On the bench sitting still there

Adjacent to the limbed tree with the middling cavern spread

In some yonic ecstasy of touch
—  And untouching, slender arms and legs folding in
—  And outward, growing toward

—  And away depending entirely on how much faith

—  And comfort can be felt in such

You will speak of disrobing because of a something inside: ardor
Arboriferous, even, rippling through your heart and bleeding out hale
Tree smells with burls and knuckles, soft verdures
You hold them up to his mouth as fingers coursing braille, as minnows testing sea, tongue

The end of summer sun sets you
Resist its beckon with fingers of dream
A look into September eyes two days before
September and affirm
To dream at all and remember its forms:

With promise of more.


Lord Jeffrey Inn and Him

Snug against
Pallid brick

To curves
As if

Comfort there
Right there
In the jolt

Into him
He is

On the bench.


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