–for Pam


While the troll roots

In the basement

Snuffling dark

Corners, cobwebs

In his beard,

The Zen Mother

Holds a meditation

Upstairs, aware

Of the beast scratching

At the floor of her

Ears, in her lair

Mirrors & the heat

Of flesh invite

All the young

Sirens to sing.

What he craves

More than gold,

More than blood,

More than the sweet

Feminine scent &

Soft breath on his neck,

Is the taste

Of her metaphysical

Sweat as she lies

In savasana waiting—

His dharma forever

Crawling the stairs.


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