another edition
and the path widens
with blossoms

ai li

d  e  w  -  o  n  -  l  i  n  e
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three

created, designed & edited
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by  ai  li

for the dog violets few notice
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out of still

                        the man
                        below my window
                        seeking another

                        in the park
                        a mockingbird holds forth
                        feeling fetal again
                        only skirt fever
                        keeps me erect

                        being with you like this :
                        trains going,
                        coming, smoke

                        summer evening -
                        i feel sorry
                        for this woman
                        who still wants to
                        look young

                        DOWN AND OUT IN HOLLYWOOD

                        Placing a black
                        Bin liner over my head :
                        "I know everyone here -
                         But where are the stars ?"

thirty-thousand blinks
peeling back the flesh;  no blood
we order coffee

                        WHITE IS

                        peoples'
                        "white"  lies
                        produce
                        wh te  s

you must remember
we
talked then

                        CUNNILINGUS

                        Taking a break
                         I briefly look up -
                         Looks like rain again.

                        llime green chiffon
                        on the back
                        of a gilt chair
                        dance stole
                        away from rhumba

                        World Cruise:

                        a heavy-set woman
                        on a park bench
                        looking around
                        she lifts her skirt
                        sun on her thighs

                        cricket, all I have
                        is tomorrow's rice

                        Ice and snow-melt from pines
                        rippling the brook--
                        sickle moon glints through forest

                        roadkill 
                        its eyes
                        on the road home

                        in a shaded spot
                        the ruins
                        of a sundial

                        the night before the hurricane
                        tiny and tinier frogs
                        clinging to the pane

                        hearing a mountain's
                        voice mountain
                        growing dark

                        another sunday at dusk
                        as the temperature drops
                        the sound of a plastic lid
                        blowing through
                        an empty parking lot

                        lover man
                        taking out
                        his wife's picture
                        to smooth
                        out the wrinkles

                        back inside
                        I can hear the maid hiccup
                        as she makes the bed
                        in the room next door

                        on my own
                        bitten by
                        mosquitos

                        Rain-drenched earth scents
                        through wind-bent pines...footprints end
                        where headstones begin

                        I I can
                          see you now
                          waiting
                          silently
                          day by day
                          beside me

                        I morning sun
                          haiku
                          everywhere

                        I Loud and Clear,

                          from the dressing booth
                          at the Railroad Salvage warehouse,
                                                         this exchange -
                          "It's cold in here."
                          "I know it.  And I don't got
                          no bra on neither."

                                                        - giving shape
                          to a pointless morning

                        I small town play
                          the loner
                          playing the loner

                        I summer over 
                          I'm not here
                          when you call and call again

                        Il'll be coming back in late March
                         when there is a point of remembrance
                         the crocus proving itself
                         against the snow

                        Ievening
                         to end
                         the day
                         of
                         your disappearance

she won't read them                      tea leaves

Where the Twin Towers stood                      Harvest Moon.

                        I friend?  enemy?
                          the same voice
                          on the telephone

                        I rain rain
                          on the window
                          like the glad
                          life pent up
                          don't be
                          tempted to
                          open the door

                        I DESERT.

                          Mountains capped in snow
                          Crest the red desert plains.
                          What extremes there are
                          In such close proximity.
                          I feel infected.

                        I Arousal

                          I'm not the woman who clangs pots when you come
                          to mask the sound of your footsteps.

                          Nor smokes to disguise your comings and goings.

                          Though you may lack subtlety
                           though you may arrive on flopping shoes,

                          always, always, you startle me
                          for no pot nor
                          smoke
                          is thick to your arousal.

                          Transparent in these my objections
                          and opaque in my submissions

                          I can only hope that waiting
                          is forbearing
                          is akin to, amounts to
                          honesty.

                        I hot summer afternoon
                          while i nap, my hand
                          strokes the cold
                          metal
                          bed frame

sweated      I throw myself on the shore    drink the lake

                        I After the break of dawn
                          I stepped into the pieces
                          all day

                        I Rabbit

                          She's in the middle of the road,
                          held by the glare of headlights.

                          The engine growls, closer.
                          The stench of rubber fills her nostrils.
                          In a flash,
                          the wheels have missed her by a millimetre.
                          Her bones didn't crack.
                          She's safe,
                          until
                          she tries to cross the road again.

                        I at the edge
                          of the deserted village
                          a freshly painted cross

                        I I will never mention
                          the one night I spent
                          all alone
                          hugging the moon.

                        I asylum anthem
                          she stands
                          for captain kirk
                          as he
                          beams her up

                        I DUSK

                          The dragon skin of sea on fire,
                          Scherzo of shades
                          On the water;

                          And the birds on wings,  on cries,  on dusk,
                          Magic of blood
                          In the harvest.

                          A symbol I have searched,  to add
                          Monument to name:
                          To the yashmak

                          That holds the touch of day,  of night -
                          Tender and mad,
                           Is like passion

                           Of girl who learns first time to love:
                           Fantasy of hope
                           In the colours.
                          
                        

                        I too much for me to hide.
                          the forwardness
                          you present
                          at this table of
                          carefully weighed words
                          leaves me on my knees
                          for you

                        I on a shuttered terrace
                          I'm there
                          alone all summer

                        I                                                 Death is...

                          Death is like the sun:
                          As humans we know that it is there
                          But avoid staring directly at it,
                          Focusing on it. To do so
                          Would be harmful:
                          So we avert our eyes.
                          For who can look for long
                          At the fact that they
                          Shall one day die?

                        I stopping
                          to tie my shoelace
                          - sunset

                        I i miss
                          your chest
                          and lean up against
                          cold bricks
                          trying to feel
                          warmth

                        I returning to your house
                          I re-read your letter,
                          your new glasses
                          with my reply
                          that you would never read

                        I Going to work

                         Yoga in the morning
                         Still

                         For my favourite poems
                         I have found
                         Not a word.

                        I sore throat this morning -
                          the crocus just manages
                          to swallow a snowflake

                        I the lollipop
                          of a stranger
                          by the carousel

                        I a solitary plane
                                  soars
                          into the summer twilight

                        I from the cat

                          a warm rat has become

                          an offering
                         

                        I the rusty swing
                          in the old house
                          evening chill
                         

                                       o
on the horizon      my sunset     y ur sunrise 

                        I Few flowers thrive through
                          seasons, lifetimes, centuries--
                          Basho, Buson, Issa.
                         

                        I the spring rain

                          without its thunder, sinks

                          under the grasses 

                        I Downtown Cafe

                          Two raindrops
                          rivulet down
                          the cafe window -

                          Two tears meet,
                          one drinks the other,
                          takes a moment

                          to digest,
                          then runs away
                          with the sum.

                        I Because I Wasn't A Rocket Scientist

                          No one will discover coffee-ringed molecule
                          Diagrams mapping out a cure for world hunger
                          Hidden under Mr. Goodbar wrappers,
                          But they will find never-sent-love letters
                          To Billy Carlos Williams,  witty pink-pen criticisms
                          Of The New Yorker magazine,  blue catalogs
                          Of writing-peak-hours,  green-gold shower curtain rings
                          Collected from conference bathrooms,  and
                          My fingernails,  black from the press of pen
                          Against lips,  waiting for that one critic's kiss.

                        I no work today
                          even with the shutters shut
                          the sun's too loud

                        I "if you left me..."
                          her sundress around her knees,
                          inside out,  and full of morning
                          in the bedroom mirror

                        I debutantes
                          talking to the camera
                          about their lives
                          before the war

                          dew on roses

                        I waiting for you
                          in this lonely room
                          the hours drag on
                          silhouette of the autumn moon
                          hides behind the trees