The black dog's whining starts inside your pain.
Your lashes flutter, closed against the light.
It drags you under, drowning you again.

My warm kisses trace your temple, all in vain,
To draw you back towards my voice, my sight.
The black dog's whining starts inside your pain.

Your skin's own scent captures sorrow's subtle stain,
A warmth receding in the morning light.
It drags you under, drowning you again. 

I smooth your hair back, feel the skin's soft grain,
Your beauty, a shadow, dim as fading starlight.
The black dog's whining starts inside your pain.

I hold you closer, though the fractures remain,
Your body present, spirit lost to white.
It drags you under, drowning you again.

I curl beside you, listening to the rain,
And breathe you in, preparing for the fight.
The black dog's whining starts inside your pain.
It drags you under, drowning you again.

No sundial’s gnomon could cut this air before—  
the dial long-slept, moonlight glows, lines our palms,
its grip of frost, its calculus we tore,
until our spines aligned, unguarded—warm.

The gnomon’s scorn now bends to our skin’s dawn—
its frost-etched law undone by breath’s slow rise.
Our shadows fuse as Brahms unwinds the calm,
rewriting fate in tongues that flesh denies.  

The gnomon’s edge, once steeped in solar lies,
now bends to taste the salt along our throats,
its calculus of light a husk, takes flight—
a butterfly that drinks what dawns promote.

Let ruins chant the creed of numbered skies—
our pulse, a clock that dares to harmonize.

You unscrew the jar; Orion’s climactic sigh spills—  
A cello’s low A hums—our triad, C and E—the night skies.  
Your thumb caresses pulse down my throat, andante, it drills  
through myth—not his hunt, but the damp heat between our thighs.  

We’ve plucked Lyra’s rusted chords, restrung her spine  
to thrum with your breath, not some dead muse’s cords.  
Stars crack like old records; we skip, we refine—  
our bed, a cradle for light, shed our sheer white peignoirs.  

You fear the jars dim? Let me mouth the black core  
of Cassiopeia—choke her brittle groan,  
then laugh as you arch—my crescendo, your score—  
each note a plum’s burst where her language had flown.  

Your teeth score my shoulder. The dark soars, unconfined—
We swallow the arias. Let the void choke on mine.

As a seed, I was shot out the back end of a blue jay when, heedless, she flew over the meadow. Now, a willow, I drowse above the pond where their bodies float—skin gilded with algae, lips parting the surface, chests arching to the sun. Her sighs ripple outward—her lover drinks them in.

They are wet-silk hair, glistening sweat. Tracing each other’s folds, a slow, open arc startling minnows. Their toes stir the mud where my roots explore.

The blue jay died mid-migration. I barely recall her. Here, they are the only sonnet: lips on sun-warmed skin, their kiss that bends reeds. Below, their legs tangle like my branches—fluid, unpruned.

A heron spears the pond. Startled, they sink. For a breath—water holds them. When they rise, the town whispers of hauntings.

They are not ghosts—just peaches overripe in August.

Mercury climbs our glass spine’s rise—
Warm droplets tremble as nerves under tongue.
We name our barometric ache—enchantment:
each storm seeded where ******* pool salt rain.
Fingers tracing, exploring, deepening pressure systems
through our kiss. The glass hums.
Lightning fills the cloudless sky.

Your sigh—flute’s trill upon my waiting neck,
Awakens chords that hum beneath my breast.
Melodies where naked spirits—*****,
Notes wild and free, where passions seek their crest.

Each touch, a whole note, bodies, andante, coalesce,
A prelude to a symphony of our scents,
Where songs of pleasure swell, we gently press,
Our emotions we softly bare—no consent.

Your skin, a sun-warmed drum—hands descend,
We resonate in rhythms—smooth and deep.
Exploring with you, lost in sweet desires, ageless spent.
I taste the salt where gentle currents seek sleep.

Our inner music flows, a tide without a name,
In Gaia's Soothing Haven, our bodies, unashamed.

Moon drags her silver stylus—waves engrave sand.
Our bodies, hourglass, ride its sand.
Hungry tides carve sand.
Sighs press our secrets in the sand
Tidal pools whisper vows in sand,
then retreating waves unwrite sand.

Our love, rewritten as sand.
Dawn erases nothing.