Guided by color
Scarlet veins at her throat, where it falls
Syllables into words
He measures her thoughts against the length of his thumb
And when he wants to know who's been loving her he checks between the fibers
of Aphrodite's doormat
Dee Stewart 08/06/11
Slow speed of awakening moves into the unseen deadline of time like a tongue into a mouth attempting stoking language
Dee Stewart 7/31/11
In 1882 the Orchid hunter Roebelin awoke to find the ladder to his tree house gone. He lay on his back looking at flowers of Lilac and Cinnamon through the hole in his roof.
He comes quietly to her bed thinking he hears the gentle wisp of her eyelids opening
Puts his hand on the place near her stomach where he imagines forgetting starts, stops an out breath.
The room a dense garden of her smell
Soon he will have to say something
Soon she will reach from under the blanket for his hand
Lovers of love whisper agitato in their sleep somewhere past
Entwined legs of the Orchid
Still as one with root and nectar spur
Tongued by moths who won't strive to outlive themselves
Moon's ingress into Cancer
Shiva toenail against indigo with dandruff stars
Written by Dee Stewart 07/31/11
She has become the hollow room of this house
Hands holding a porcelain cup
She will use this truth later, but here, this existance is done with fingers, holding keys of doors
Borrowing, I will
Borrow your hands, I will
place them on my chest, I will
be the distant dreamer, I will
witness the patient tongue of sea lapping smooth the rocks, gulping down the swimmers who can’t
Dee Stewart - 2/11
It wasn’t her aria... or maybe yes, perhaps in the happening
She laughs out loud, the sounds spilling out whole like birth
Helping another to an abrupt ending of life, and its taken her half the day.
Resting on her stoop she imagines spare thoughts, each idea with it's own color. As they crash into each other she calls them forgetful and clumsy, and teasing names them dreams.
Squinting, taking sun as if she could composition the sky. Light quietly unconcealing all that's primitive and complex, like life.
Dee Stewart
10/2010
Denver traffic this morning roars and beeps like a cheap video game.
At Colorado and 1st, a speeding bicyclist's paper sack spills his stash of shiny bagels all over the pavement.
Heads turn.
Two dozen bagels kiss the street at crazy angles, then goofily twirl on empty centers until gravity calms them down in front of some cars at the light.
The bicyclist jerks his vehicle over to the curb while hissing inaudible words of concern.
Colorado Blvd, now suddenly set like a breakfast table, displays to the public a tasty temptation with not one taker.
Idling cars restrained before by a red light now turning green begin to roll forward towards the strewn bagels.
As if witnessing a friend's execution, the bicyclist clutches his empty sack and glares with grim indignity at the squashings.
Dee Stewart
There is an age where a child will test everything by putting it in their mouth as if its taste held a secret.
Before the shape of words weighs down my infinite tongue I hold you in my mouth.
And read you like braille.
Dee Stewart 9/2010
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