Two Poems in December

Dawn
Night like a sheet lifting,
In thin light we lie still,
Beasts resting on in this
Golden fog of first day;
Warm arms soon vine, sifting
Slack flesh for the supple,
Sudden pleasure, each wish
Fulfilled before it’s made

Written in Rain
Like children’s footsteps, pit-pat on the pane.
Does this rain touch your skin that I cannot?
Cloudy eyes, storm-swaddled planets,
Search the blackwetblurred reflection—
Visages come. Yes, but not the sought one.

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