Acorn and Moss by john e call forth the scent - that's where it starts, two shades away from musk, straining to hold delicate counterparts in dewy gauze, short of raining. i first hear the trembling of leaves overhead, precision subtle. a stray yet focused light relieves the sun-starved hollow, rebuttal to my unlit eyes, mischievous ease of scene-setting, reducing the mundane, leaving luminous opportunities.  i breathe, bring to my body fragrance and light. can this occur for me alone? the delicacies observed fight to be more: sense furies disown themselves in the struggle.  and now, in this dream, or wish, or transport i move along, bare toes (just how had your spirit - lively escort - persuaded me to step shoeless? in this desire controlled i'm one with you, leaf-tapping to digress lightly into light: even sun is a hued tone, spotlight ablaze, simultaneously muted. i'm one with you, and so outgaze the woods.  you wish me unbooted: i dream your dream for you).  tell me you're not the moss, yielding and damp. you'd not explain away, you see, heartbeats connected to the tramp of my entry, the progressive tenuousness of step toward you. say you are not this reflective brightness, illumination through a timid drizzle, and i will still inhabit this mute soft air, still whisper how you come to fill the solitude, how everywhere you wait for me.  seeing acorns, two hard dark nubs, lighter than brown, darker than rose: this too forewarns me, before exciting me down my own deep clearing.  no hiding of want within.  parts of me rise, desiring company, chiding me with the hard strength of surprise for my reserve and reticence. yes, you are here.  your flesh is bared, elbows and knees in confidence press my wet dream moss, longing stared back, nipples hard brush the carpet of soft life within life, burn light inside light, so the rivulet runs back to me, fluid delight in fantasy.  watching you bow to raise your own slow wantoness to a blind need you will allow my eyes your wild excessiveness, the vulnerability of natural states, the natural state: vulnerability, love of openess, trust bestial. you wait for me in my forest. exposed, opened to sun and rain and my tongue, my self.  without rest i pleasure you, until we drain all subtlety from my daydream by our wet bodies locked in spasm, clawing and growling the mad theme here, in this pastoral chasm charmed by the animals we are. i lose myself, and all is more of itself, wondrous; and far within, mad wordlessness in your voice brings us together in this vacancy.  we slowly embrace on soft earth, under softer kiss of rain.  then sadly i erase your body, silence your hoarse lust, watch the slight furrows in moss spring up to claim occupancy just as before; i watch as each thing affected by your beauty leaves this imagined relationship and becomes itself, misconceives my desire, lets my body slip backwards, away from the clearing, the acorns and moss, until these too are imagined, are nothing but images you left to please from an artful conversation. i've imagined each piece, and placed you there; lustful adoration by thought and fingers interfaced with memory.  here is some verse, celebrating your vision.  moss and acorns, semen and sweat: curse the true sun, the dark woods, the loss of our scratching each other in the dirt; curse the loss of the dirt; curse this poem, this civil dustbin, and curse these longings i divert.

© 2001 john e. All rights reserved

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