We kiss beneath white wild stars
and open this earthly summer.
The Port Of San Francisco
A windy, clear day
in the soul of the body’s wartime-
Degrees Of Green At Goat Rock
from here you can watch
waves blaze into
horizons that bleed and stretch
Women At The Russian River
“Sorta cigar shaped, ” she urged.
“Go get the ball, Orbis, ” said another.
Our voices no longer tend to unison
In these boats drifting across dark waters,
No renaissance culls an older wisdom
From city lights or pain’s empty daughter.
You get masked by the lines sometimes
like bluish dye, in the shape of
a wolf’s rib, shot through frost
or that other tigress, fire, though