Glass: A Journal of Poetry Volume Two Issue One       

Michael Kocinski

In the Still of the Night

I am stepping
off the back porch,
naked, moon-white,
fully awake
in the dew cold grass;

cock hard,

startled,
growing out of thatch,
a flowering branch

just there;
uncommon flora
supported by my
body and blood,

blossoming,
blossoming nightly

whether I sleep
or wander the maple tree
darkness beyond

the sliding glass door.

Creatures here
call out to me:
katydids and crickets,
their big fuck songs
resounding:

"Pleasure, Pleasure."

Such bawdy lust
in the tree tops
and garden shadows.

Tonight, I come
out here,

and shout when
I come

under the stars,
and shout and shout,
and run
into the dark green
wilderness,

milky in the moonlight;
milky,
this jism
petalling the leaf litter,
my thighs, the sky
hung so low;

my clenched hand

be-pearled,
be-blossomed,
the wilderness I
run into
be-decked
with strange new flowers

gleaming.

Oh! I shout
and join
the other animals,
concupiscient
in the dangerous
moonlight,

lurching into
darkness,
coming out alight,
echoing
in the tree-filled
darkness,
in the starfull night:

"Pleasure, pleasure"