Just like the still breeze,
condensed and dense,
intense and tense,
all the spirits freeze,
all the bodies melt down in heat,
the old stories
have found no beat
to tell reality
from mere fantasy.

And shaking the eternal disease
for this aching, no final ease,
just unchainingless glances of fancy free:
Lust meaningful dances pleasing me
(pleasing thee)...

When the hurricane stops still
the bodies wake up,
the souls go ill,
the final make up... for the kill.

6/27/91