The ocean horizon
that pulls the
sun of my tongue
beneath its waves;
A wisp of smoke
from a brazier
of pungent incense,
this is the beam
of the shadow
streaked cathedral
where my rigid
saints lust
for you, the vine
that climbs me
over the wall
into your garden
of humid orchid.
The hint
of pepper at the back
of a goblet of
zinfandel.
A streak of ink
on a globe to
mark the river
where you drown me,
the border
between your country
and mine that I slip
across at my own
peril.
Originally published January 2010