WORDCHASM

Caught in quicksand
colors spill backwards to pigments,
common brown grains swirl fourth colors
in lands of Seuss.
Fixed, pool neither pushes or pulls,
unyielding its monstrous grip;
torture not to senses, rather
eternal lock & key.
My eyes wander, scouting barren
landscape–summer & winter
impression–grass strobe many seasons
like a coked wolverine.
Weeks pass in seconds
as if the grass consumed
steroids–Jack’s bean stock–now
blades part like a flattened [...]

To capture you with my lips,
our breath exchange; to be
in your arms, flesh to flesh;
to shower with our sweat; to inhale
fragrant dance; to entangle, is
ourselves lost in dream.