by Douglas Knudsen

I plant hyancinth;
your umber eyes pollenate
my work.  I can’t dig.

Western wind entreats
my small, open hand to close
the gap of desire.

Oleanders bloom.
I worry the sun will burn
everything: us.

Your honeysuckle
lips intoxicate my hours;
slow, strong gulf storms bloom.

Crisp leaves, given up
on my doorstep; you left me
wet chrysanthemums.

Carved gourd guts ground strewn.
Thunder, timpani of rain
anticipated.

Greeting card: Hello.
Snow and cinnamon. I miss
your cologne, wrists, neck.

Frozen world, passion
cools as ice thaws, cracks into
the first shoots: verdure.

His fingers blossom
on my skin; your winter:
jealous memories.

Douglas Knudsen is in his senior year at University of Houston pursuing a major in English-Creative Writing and a minor is Values in Law and Policy.  While going to school, he also works full time at a pizza company and finds time to participate in his campus’ GLBT social group, GLOBAL.