in the hungergarden|
nightgarden: Last night the moon was full, milky pink. I knew you were under it. A lunar swirl of sheer sperm. I heard you playing blues on the shore, sand pipers at your feet. Foam blowing over the keys.
watergarden: The margins are blue gray fading to black, then violet then back to black. They surround a core that puffs to the size of a sweet potato. Expand, contract, expand contract. The hunger begins. I can smell you, your clean, untraceable odor. The natural man with sweat over his lips. The valleys are dark with holes that look like fish mouths, ready to feed.
rockgarden: I've wanted to ask if you've thought of black, your favorite color, as related to topsoil. You are earth. I wish I could turn you into my body as I would mix loam into sand.
night-water-rockgarden: Your boat glides into my garden; headlights color the rocks deep purple. Snorkel gear on, you climb overboard, your lips surrounded with aqua and deep violet. You fight your way through bougainvillae -- a tangle of heliotropic neon -- push aside celosia thick as seaweed. You kiss me underwater, illuminated with flashing lights.
hungergarden: The rocks take on a pinkish cast. The abdomen growls. Everything begins to grow. In the stomach, blossoms flutter: red, orange. Red, orange.