A first floor cremation
urn gallery comes to me

in a dream
where I’m riding east—

a river crosser, muse
lover—lusting for a guardian

angel who can’t be
touched. Live human flesh

before me, he must remain
straight ahead, slightly

elevated—never false.

Taking Root

Just as suddenly as it resurfaces
in some stirred-up
grit loosened 

by spring, it can sink
into a new dormancy
nourished by her calm 

flesh. It can but hasn’t. Alert
and proud, this desire
has begun to float.