My Proteus

I floated on saccharine honey comb
Mistress of stinging bees
Being slowly inwardly torn
By airwaves penetrating old sycamore trees

My mother with saffron olive tree skin
Said my protean king would move like the waves
Emerging from morose modern din
A good man does all bees save

I spun men’s limbs around like a fortune wheel
Somewhere on the zodiac he must be
Some water-weaver knows what my bees feel
he will stop morphing his ways for me

One will let me hold his heel you shall sea.

I left Calypso-the Echoes were too deafening.
Maybe this one will
salvage my hive
bring my honey alive

The Desert Woman only knows the passion of the Sandstorm:

Her brown arms engulf you
Smothering warm symphonic covering
Spicy fire lymphonic night breeze
Roaring still everlastquick soaring
Breath
Lashes layering longing looks toward dunes

On which she lays her arching petrol back
Hiding the grains of sand holding her up no
beating sun above her can see

See, the Desert Woman’s love is Like This:

She shall dance on the sand and
Let her feet sink deep so deep down in and
Tiny grains of rock may hold keep drag slender fire down but

Only about as long as a sandstorm.

And when her brown toes kick away from you you’re

Sliding tumble wonderingly losing
Stepping never dually missing
Beating sol-ace foolishly believing
Grains
(so sorry, seemingly splendorous statue covering her)

The Desert Woman never steps on the same sand twice-
She has a drought and you bring a sandstorm?