Coyote moon
A;; that’s left
is cascara, a bike helmet, she pondered a gaze @ the old
a palm on handle
new helmet on head
passed on grabbing it
so there it hung
like every petal on every flower
all pistels from full branch, every thistle, seed, sprout, needle & blade weight, on limb of old flame
parque G.G.,
grand central of frost petals
we’d peruse the trails marked out by Rangers & then make our own & find
silence & canopy for cloud forest fresh
exposed skin, diving deep into her Venus, skirting the cliff
of conception because
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she’s worth this garden & we’re worth the magic
of this place, that makes us lagoon
forced to hush, we hear steps in the distance
but there’s plenty of space for solitude & our positions
our carnal drive always a cog of potential
edible nipple
booty, a symphony of djembe drum echoed off Redwood gusts which cast
the line of held moan under full moon
dream catching our mouth heat
hair moved from her face
so she can see clearly the family of Coyotes passing in the distance & feeling a presence out among the tree, we watch the canines walk,
it’s a whole family
teaching them pups night missions before the howl
before we’re called back to our throb
I’m a shell sitting in gardens watching foliage jealous of their moves
they only have one sound, we hold brass woodwinds, timpani, reeds for the whole ride, touched notes every vibraphone
