Oso Blanco

You go to the creek,

three fingerlings race upstream in summer shallows.

I stare at this second-hand table

thinking of metaphors for dappled light.

In the morning the smell of red dust in your hair

registers right when a dog is barking does, the sun

almost white.

Under you I feel the warm day become real

as you do. In the dark enough of you runs

to make your body move

too. I am a trucker’s wife,

humming a tune. I am a white bear

at the window. There is no moon.

I Weave my Face Into Lights.

I weave my face into lights.

Fists, I see sinuous rivulets of saliva

along arches of straight teeth, glistening more strongly

into a stronger mouth.

Cruel girls fold into my lover,

little dogs laugh into the sea.

Larks thread grasses

and train-reeds carve wind.