Across a trillium mesa, black fog contemplates, hovering like

a condor in an updraft. The grim veil pauses, circumspect,

needing to know what I know of love—

how a kiss is like the drawing out of juice from a pomegranate

jewel, how the touch of kindred skins is like freefall running

down the slope of Highgate Hill.


Always though, there is discontent. Taste and feeling are

evanescent, fleeting moments that fly or flow.  Love is sensual

happenstance, pinioned by expectation and midnight pulses.

I have never existed within my lover’s contours.


The deep mist disengages, gathering itself for a headlong rush

down Hayden’s Peak. Even if I could prevent a haphazard

descent, my words will change nothing. This is how love is

pursued. In sudden desperation, a rock slide disembogues and

a dust cloud envelopes an unsuspecting valley.


Not a black fog at all—

only the polemic billow of my day shadow turned inside-out.