1. (though love be a day)

A kiss - a simple thing. Well, simple in execution; you just pucker and press and there you are. That's where the simplicity ends. Now leaving simplicity, now entering complicated, population: two. But wait, do vampires count in the census? Nah, they probably eat the census takers. Kinda explains why that job is so unpopular.

But, back to the thing at hand, or rather, at lips. Soft lips. Lips that are gentle, as weird as that sounds. They move like whispers, glide like silk, and leave behind trails of pure fire. They open against yours and make you do the same, because it's right, even when it's so very wrong.

There's a hand in your hair, and one at your face, fingertips stroking the edge of your jaw, the line of a cheekbone. Yours join in, touching, mapping. His skin is like water, it's so smooth; makes you want to hold your breath and sink down and drown in his kiss. So, you do. It's safe there, when the entire world narrows to twining tongues and soft sounds and the serene beauty of what you've made in the space between two people.

It's not the first kiss, and it won't be the last, because you'll never let him go. Doesn't matter what anyone says, even him, because you know your own mind and heart, and they both agree that he's worth it - whatever it takes.

You break the kiss, long enough to snatch a breath. "Love you, Spike."

"Love you, Xan."

Thy fingers make early flowers of
all things.
thy hair mostly the hours love:
a smoothness which
sings,saying
(though love be a day)
do not fear,we will go amaying.

thy whitest feet crisply are straying.
Always
thy moist eyes are at kisses playing,
whose strangeness much
says;singing
(though love be a day)
for which girl art thou flowers bringing?

To be thy lips is a sweet thing
and small.
Death,Thee i call rich beyond wishing
if this thou catch,
else missing.
(though love be a day
and life be nothing,it shall not stop kissing).

2. riding the echo down

He didn't mean to tell her. He hadn't told anyone, ever - not even Dru. Later, he decided that it was the warmth that was his undoing. Not the warmth of the hot chocolate - her warmth. She took him at face value, or rather at less; she took him for a man and treated him as such - an action so simple, yet so very complicated that he was pretty sure he would never understand. After a hundred-odd years it was...refreshing.

In her quiet kitchen, she told him of her lost love. Not Hank, but a boy before, in school - he had moved away and broken her heart and she had never, ever forgotten him. She laughed it off, saying that she was being a silly romantic, but he could see the yearning in her eyes. Maybe it was the shared confidence that made him tell her the story of Cecily and her cruel dismissal, made him open himself up to this kind lady.

She listened quietly and patted his hand and made sympathetic noises, and he shocked himself speechless by tearing up at the small kindness. They sat a moment, her delicate hand layered softly over his, each sparing a thought for the past. Then Spike heard the unmistakable noise of Buffy's approach and excused himself, but he spent a long time standing under the tree and smoking, only this time, his eyes stayed on the kitchen window, rather than the one above, and his thoughts remained with Joyce.

All in green went my love riding
on a great horse of gold
into the silver dawn.

four lean hounds crouched low and smiling
the merry deer ran before.

Fleeter be they than dappled dreams
the swift sweet deer
the red rare deer.

Four red roebuck at a white water
the cruel bugle sang before.

Horn at hip went my love riding
riding the echo down
into the silver dawn.

four lean hounds crouched low and smiling
the level meadows ran before.

Softer be they than slippered sleep
the lean lithe deer
the fleet flown deer.

Four fleet does at a gold valley
the famished arrow sang before.

Bow at belt went my love riding
riding the mountain down
into the silver dawn.

four lean hounds crouched low and smiling
the sheer peaks ran before.

Paler be they than daunting death
the sleek slim deer
the tall tense deer.

Four tell stags at a green mountain
the lucky hunter sang before.

All in green went my love riding
on a great horse of gold
into the silver dawn.

four lean hounds crouched low and smiling
my heart fell dead before.

3. beget the spring

She rubs her hand over the curve of her belly. It's small, barely there, and no one can see it because she always wears her tops kind of loose anyway. But there's a life in there - unexpected, but never unloved. She won't tell Jamie what their one-time fumblings have produced; she can't tell her family. No, this child will be protected, nurtured, loved - there will be only happy voices and sweet words, not the flaring tempers and hurtful hands she grew up with.

Tara's leaving home. Not because of the baby - teenage pregnancy is nothing shocking in her part of the world. She's leaving because she knows that she no longer belongs here, no longer wants to live her life this way. She's leaving, and she won't look back. She'll find a new family - one of choice, not chance. They'll love her, love her child - make them welcome in a way that Tara's never known, but one that she believes in anyway.

She packs what she can fit into a small backpack, including her babysitting money and the old gold coins Mama gave her before she died. At the end of the driveway she checks the mail - force of habit. There's an acceptance letter from the University of California Sunnydale, and Tara tucks it into her bag; a small reminder of a life unlived, still precious. She rubs her belly again and sets out to find her place in a place that is elsewhere, unknown and full of hope.

when god lets my body be

From each brave eye shall sprout a tree
fruit dangles therefrom

the purpled world will dance upon
Between my lips which did sing

a rose shall beget the spring
that maidens whom passions wastes

will lay between their little breasts
My strong fingers beneath the snow

Into strenous birds shall go
my love walking in the grass

their wings will touch with their face
and all the while shall my heart be

With the bulge and nuzzle of the sea

4. puddle-wonderful

Xander, Jesse and Willow had a tradition. Xander's family wasn't much for traditions. Willow's mom could suck the joy out of one at ten paces, armed with mind-numbing academic detail and historical rhetoric. Jesse's family didn't take much notice; as the youngest of six, Jesse might well have been invisible. So, the three made their own traditions, among them Spring Water War.

On the first day that felt like spring (in California, that day could be in February as easily as in April), they would have their first skirmishes. The blue sky and sunlight would look down upon the battlefield of the neighborhood, and the breeze would be warm and welcoming. Suddenly, and with out warning, the game would be on. A three-way war would rage - water guns and water balloons and often the hose or a bucket. Frontal assaults, sneak attacks, booby traps - it was war, and in war, nobody stayed dry.

It would end with three dripping kids at the 7-11, weathering the clerk's scowls to pool their change for Twinkies and Ho-Ho's and Slurpees - spoils of war. They'd walk back home, dragging their feet in the sunset, rehashing the skirmishes and nodding sagely when Jesse always reminded them that history was written by the victors.

The spring of freshman year brought a different kind of war. The water guns held holy water and one soldier was already gone. Xander caught Willow's eye and knew that she, too, was remembering. This history would be written by the survivors.

in Just-
spring when the world is mud-
luscious the little lame baloonman

whistles far and wee

and eddyandbill come
running from marbles and
piracies and it's
spring

when the world is puddle-wonderful

the queer
old baloonman whistles
far and wee
and bettyandisbel come dancing

from hop-scotch and jump-rope and

it's
spring
and
the
goat-footed

baloonMan whistles
far
and
wee

5. thou answerest them only with spring
(Sequel to beget the spring)

She stays a while in Charlotte - she likes the name and Kathy, a sweet woman at the diner, took one long look at Tara and offered her a job. So, she washes dishes and busses tables and sleeps at night at Kathy's house. Her room was Kathy's daughter's, and time has stopped in there. The room is waiting for a twelve-year-old girl to return to it. Kathy doesn't say what happened to her girl, and Tara doesn't ask.

Her belly is growing rounder now, and she counts the days and realizes that her child will be born in early April, on the cusp of spring. That makes her happy, even though any other date would have pleased her just as much. Kathy takes her to a doctor, another friend, and he takes Tara's blood and urine and gives her an exam that makes her blush and stammer, but he's kindly and tries not to scare her.

He says she and the baby are both healthy, and Kathy hugs her and calls her "Brandy." Days pass, and Kathy gets stranger and stranger, calling Tara by the wrong name and referring to the baby as "ours." So, the next Friday, Tara picks up her check as usual and waves goodbye to Kathy, who's working the late shift. She goes back to the ramshackle house and tidies up, then packs her things. She leaves fifty dollars on the kitchen table and sets out, still seeking the place where she and her child belong.

O sweet spontaneous
earth how often have
the doting

fingers of
prurient philosophies pinched
and poked

thee
has the naughty thumb
of science prodded
thy

beauty how
often have religions taken
thee upon their scraggy
knees squeezing and

buffeting thee that thou mightest conceive
gods
but
true

to the incomparable
couch of death thy
rhythmic
lover

thou answerest

them only with

spring

6. furnished souls

"'S not the same." Crossed arms. Lip curled. Head nodding sharply. Spike's the picture of certainty.

"Is, too." Lilting tone, ready to play. Sparkle in brown eyes. Angel looks like an overgrown four-year-old.

"Is not." Definitive. Barely repressed urge to stomp foot. Who's the four-year-old, again?

"I'm not having this argument with you, it's pointless." Long-suffering sigh, completely fake. Smile, completely real.

""S not. You were cursed; I fought for it." Belligerence, with a little bit of honest pique. Arms crossed over chest, jaw set.

"And you think that makes you better than me?" Real hurt showing through. Looking away.

"Not better; different." Kinder, still not gentle. Hands falling to sides.

"You've always been different, since the beginning." Wistful, slightly longing. Still looking away.

"You just now noticing that? Tosser." Snark - fallback position. Arms back to crossed.

"No, I knew it all along." Sincere, nearly painfully so. Eyes down.

"Hated it, too." Matter-of-fact.

"That's true. I'm..." Sad, soulful.

"Don't say it. I'll have to kill you if you say it!" Warning tone, waving finger.

"...sorry." Tiny smile behind the sadness.

"That's it. Now I have to kill you." Resignation, eagerness. Step forward.

...

...

"Can't do it, huh?" Disingenuous tone, small smirk. Eyes up, twinkling.

"Stupid soul. Stop smirking at me." Disappointment, annoyance. Hidden grin.

"No." The chase is on.

the Cambridge ladies who live in furnished souls
are unbeautiful and have comfortable minds
(also, with the church's protestant blessings
daughters, unscented shapeless spirited)
they believe in Christ and Longfellow,both dead,
are invariably interested in so many things-
at the present writing one still finds
delighted fingers knitting for the is it Poles?
perhaps. While permanent faces coyly bandy
scandal of Mrs. N and Professor D
....the Cambridge ladies do not care,above
Cambridge if sometimes in its box of
sky lavender and cornerless, the
moon rattles like a fragment of angry candy

7. send me a little word

He's not a ghost. He'll argue the point, too, you better believe it. He's a spirit. Turns out, there's a difference. He can't quite tell you what that difference is, but won't let that stop him. Doyle's a spirit, and as such he gets to go where he wants, see who he pleases and generally eavesdrop on everything from closed-door meetings to the ladies' locker room at the Y. Not that he would - closed-door meetings are a bore.

Except for the one he's watching now. It's been a while since he checked in on Angel and his crew at Wolfram & Hart. He visits with Cordelia from time to time. He doesn't know where her spirit is - it isn't with the body in the bed, but he feels closer to her there. He spends time there, just watching. But now, he's watching Angel.

Angel's got a tremendous leather chair behind his desk - looks comfy, and Doyle wistfully wishes for corporeality so he could give it a spin. Not today, though, because Angel's in it and he's pulled Wesley down onto his lap, and he's kissing the man like there's a prize for it. Wes' token objections have melted away; his hands coming up to cup Angel's face and Doyle can see that both men are exactly where they want to be. It's bittersweet, but he's happy for them. Powers know, they'll have a short supply of both time and joy. He gives them one last look and fades away.

it may not always be so;and i say
that if your lips,which i have loved,should touch
another's,and your dear strong fingers clutch
his heart,as mine in time not far away;
if on another's face your sweet hair lay
in such a silence as i know,or such
great writhing words as,uttering overmuch,
stand helplessly before the spirit at bay;

if this should be,i say if this should be-
you of my heart,send me a little word;
that i may go unto him,and take his hands,
saying,Accept all happiness from me.
Then shall i turn my face,and hear one bird
sing terribly afar in the lost lands.

8. to nobody something

"At least they can see you some of the time," Anya's perched on the corner of Angel's desk, legs crossed, filing her nails. She's oblivious to the meeting going on around her, focused on her manicure.

"What are you doing here?" Spike's freaked out enough, thanks, what with the standing in the middle of desks and fading from view and all - he really doesn't need Anya in the mix to complicate things.

"I hear things. I heard you were coming back, so I thought I'd check in with you." She looks up from her nails and drops the emery board, which disappears. "You know, fallen comrades and all - I died in the school, too."

Spike doesn't know what to say. Sorry? Hate that for ya? So, he falls back on a nod and moves to stand next to her.

"How's death treating you?" he asks, figuring that's the closest he's going to come to small talk for ghosts.

She giggles, and it's actually cute - he sees a tiny bit of that soft, vulnerable beauty he'd seen on their night together. The soul gives him a little kick, and he muses for a moment about being a semi-ghost with a soul. Idly, he reaches out, and there's a small feeling of something when his fingers pass through hers.

"Yeah, the no touching thing sucks. I can't even masturbate or touch money." She frowns, and Spike has to smile at her mournful expression. Trust Anya to put things in their proper perspective.

suppose

Life is an old man carrying flowers on his head.

young death sits in a cafe
smiling, a pierce of money held between
his thumb and first finger

(i say "will he buy flowers" to you
and "Death is young
life wears velour trousers
life totters, life has a beard" i

say to you who are silent.--"Do you see
Life? he is there and here,
or that, or this
or nothing or an old man 3 thirds
asleep, on his head
flowers, always crying
to nobody something about les
roses les bluets
yes,
will He buy?
Les belles bottes--oh hear
, pas cheres")

and my love slowly answered I think so. But
I think I see someone else

there is a lady, whose name is Afterwards
she is sitting beside young death, is slender;
likes flowers.

9. moving New and Old things

It's the sweater that finally makes her break. It's not even a nice sweater. Her mom has had it for years. Had had it for years. Buffy's no English major, but she knows how hard it is to talk about Joyce in the past tense.

Dawn is angry. So's Xander. Anya's confused and scared. Willow and Tara are shocked and sad, and when they do let go of each other, they exchange mournful looks until they're together again. Then they exchange mournful smiles. Giles has been her rock - so matter-of-fact and strong and, well, British.

The artwork has all been moved back to the gallery to be sold, and the only things left are Joyce's closet and dresser drawers. Buffy has filled four boxes already. Dawn took that ratty old robe and won't give it up - she sleeps with it every night, and Buffy can hear her crying.

Buffy hasn't cried. Not much - a single tear here or there, and lots of bitten lips and quick looks away. But the sweater does it. It's ratty and blue-gray, old and shapeless. It's got a v-neck and extra-long sleeves; Joyce always had to roll the cuffs a few times. Her mom always wore it on lazy days at the edge of spring, when a few tendrils of winter remained. Buffy can remember the first time Joyce wore it, Right out of the clumsily wrapped box, on Mother's Day - Buffy was twelve. It smells like mom; it is mom, and Buffy cries.

Spring is like a perhaps hand
(which comes carefully
out of Nowhere)arranging
a window,into which people look(while
people stare
arranging and changing placing
carefully there a strange
thing and a known thing here)and

changing everything carefully

spring is like a perhaps
Hand in a window
(carefully to
and fro moving New and
Old things,while
people stare carefully
moving a perhaps
fraction of flower here placing
an inch of air there)and

without breaking anything.

10. everyone's in love and flowers pick themselves
This one's for gwynnega.

Giles rubbed his glasses with the handkerchief and smiled as Willow carefully kept her expression neutral. Almost. The beginnings of a sly grin hovered at the corners of her mouth. It was a look that he loved on her. She turned her attention back to the computer, and he looked at the back of her neck - pale as cream and as slender as any swans. With her vibrant hair, she could be any Irish lass, but no; Willow was a hundred percent American. A modern marvel.

"I found seventeen references to the ritual," she said, pride in her voice. "Let's see your stinky old books do that!" The smile blossomed fully.

Giles folded his glasses and put them in his pocket, along with the handkerchief. "Yes, yes - much faster than the stinky old books, only none of the character." His voice was soft and light, like the April sun streaming through his apartment window, casting brilliant highlights off her hair.

"The computer is so much faster that we can take a break," he said.

A red eyebrow arched. "A break?"

He slid his hand into her hair, sliding his fingers back to curve around the nape of her delicate neck; rough, scarred fingers against her downy skin. She came to her feet smoothly and wrapped her arms around his waist and returned his gentle kiss. He leaned down after to kiss her forehead and pull her close, savoring her warmth and spicy scent.

"I love being efficient," she told him.

who knows if the moon's
a balloon,coming out of a keen city
in the sky--filled with pretty people?
(and if you and i should

get into it,if they
should take me and take you into their balloon,
why then
we'd go up higher with all the pretty people

than houses and steeples and clouds:
go sailing
away and away sailing into a keen
city which nobody's ever visited,where

always
it's
Spring)and everyone's
in love and flowers pick themselves

11. "Noel Noel"

The first Christmas after the divorce, Buffy and Dawn decided to agree. As sisters, they never agreed, but even through the self-involvement of youth, they could see that Joyce was sad. They got together on the porch steps one day and hammered out a deal. The next day, Joyce took them to the Christmas tree lot. She sighed as she parked and waited for a moment before turning to the girls.

"Buffy, Dawn," she began, running a nervous hand through her hair. "Let's get a smaller tree this year. I know you like the big ones, but it'll just be us this year, so..."

The girls exchanged a look and nodded solemnly before climbing out of the car. The lot was festooned with twinkle lights and wreaths and greenery, strange amid the Los Angeles lights and not-even-chilly evening air. They passed towering trees, and Buffy reached out to stroke a branch, remembering how she and Dawn always fought to be the one that Daddy picked up higher, higher, higher to place the heirloom angel on top. She glanced at the price tag and gulped.

She turned around and saw Dawn standing next to a small, ragged tree. It was a little lopsided, and the branches were kind of thin. Dawn gestured to the tree and looked at Buffy with big, hopeful eyes.

The tree looked a little silly, weighted down with too many ornaments, but the angel looked pretty when Joyce set it in place and beamed at her daughters.

little tree
little silent Christmas tree
you are so little
you are more like a flower

who found you in the green forest
and were you very sorry to come away?
see i will comfort you
because you smell so sweetly

i will kiss your cool bark
and hug you safe and tight
just as your mother would,
only don't be afraid

look the spangles
that sleep all the year in a dark box
dreaming of being taken out and allowed to shine,
the balls the chains red and gold the fluffy threads,

put up your little arms
and i'll give them all to you to hold
every finger shall have its ring
and there won't a single place dark or unhappy

then when you're quite dressed
you'll stand in the window for everyone to see
and how they'll stare!
oh but you'll be very proud

and my little sister and i will take hands
and looking up at our beautiful tree
we'll dance and sing
"Noel Noel"

12. how not to dance

First, don't flail around like a spaz. That makes her smile at you the wrong way - all affection and zero heat. Perfectly wrong. Also, don't hold her loosely, swaying behind her as she entices and teases. She's just using you to make him jealous. Also, don't try to be suave and waltz - could trigger a clothes fluke, and those never end well.

Don't give your all to learn a new dance - you may think you're swinging, but you're not.

Do find your own rhythm. Find the music that moves you, the beat that owns you. Alone in the crowd with a drumbeat and a heartbeat, you can find new facets of yourself. Do use your dance - it calls him, brings him closer. Change it - press together, move together, skin to skin and mouth to mouth.

Later, follow the drums. Let them take you to the edge of the fire. Smell sweat and woodsmoke, yucca beer and spicy herbs. Speak the words of a stranger, hear the words of welcome. Join the watchers and eat and drink what you are given, feeling the beat of the drums in your bones.

Drunk enough to dance, join the dark, decorated bodies. Accept the feathers and bones the giggling girls tie into your hair. Move your bare feet against the clay and feel the vibration of the world. Suck Africa into your lungs and dance your heart - let your prayers rise with the smoke and recapture a bit of your bruised soul.

Dance.

you shall above all things be glad and young
For if you're young,whatever life you wear

it will become you;and if you are glad
whatever's living will yourself become.
Girlboys may nothing more than boygirls need:
i can entirely her only love

whose any mystery makes every man's
flesh put space on;and his mind take off time

that you should ever think,may god forbid
and (in his mercy) your true lover spare:
for that way knowledge lies,the foetal grave
called progress,and negation's dead undoom.

I'd rather learn from one bird how to sing
than teach ten thousand stars how not to dance

13. an instrument to measure Spring with
Sequel to beget the spring,/cite> and thou answerest them only with spring.

She arrives in Sunnydale in February. California sunshine falls on her - a vision of the promise of spring. Her belly is full, her breasts rounded and lush. She smiles all the time, lit from within. She finds work in a bookshop, placing the books in their proper places, pushing a small cart around and resting when she needs to on soft sofas or deep chairs.

One day she's resting and reading What to Expect When You're Expecting and a girl speaks to her, asking her name.

"I'm Tara," she says. "I work here."

"My name's Willow," the girl replies.

They talk for a moment, then again the next day. Willow comes in most days that she works, and Tara's flattered and awed by the attention. Tara feels special when they are together, feels safe. She thinks that maybe she's found a friend.

Willow is in the bookshop the day that Tara's water breaks, and she holds her hand all the way to the hospital, squeezing and reassuring. They stay that way throughout the day and into the evening, when Tara rubs her belly for the last time and touches her child's head while the rest is still joining the world. Soft dark hair for a moment, and then a little life, wriggling in the doctor's grasp.

Tara thinks about patterns, about circles that connect and guide, and gives thanks for the symmetry that brought her here, a place that is elsewhere; a place that welcomes and nurtures, her daughter's home.

voices to voices,lip to lip
i swear(to noone everyone)constitutes
undying;or whatever this and that petal confutes...
to exist being a peculiar form of sleep

what's beyond logic happens beneath will;
nor can these moments be translated:i say
that even after April
by God there is no excuse for May

-bring forth your flowers and machinery:sculpture and prose
flowers guess and miss
machinery is the more accurate, yes
it delivers the goods,Heaven knows

(yet are we mindful,though not as yet awake,
of ourselves which shout and cling,being
for a little while and which easily break
in spite of the best overseeing)

i mean that the blond abscence of any program
except last and always and first to live
makes unimportant what i and you believe;
not for philosophy does this rose give a damn...

bring on your fireworks,which are a mixed
splendor of piston and of pistil;very well
provided an instant may be fixed
so that it will not rub,like any other pastel.

(While you and i have lips and voices which
are for kissing and to sing with
who cares if some oneyed son for a bitch
invents an instrument to measure Spring with?

each dream nascitur,is not made...)
why then to Hell with that:the other;this,
since the thing perhaps is
to eat flower and not to be afraid.

14. i like my body when it's with your body
Sequel to beget the spring, thou answerest them only with spring and an instrument to measure Spring with.

Tara names her daughter Anna, and they live in a tiny house on the edge of the bad part of town. Tara doesn't see that, though. She sees people, like the Martins, who live across the street; they coo over Anna when Tara takes her out in her stroller. Anna is a happy baby, and her gummy, drooly smile makes Tara beam in a soft way that radiates love. Anna smiles for Tara and she smiles for Willow. Everyone else gets a slightly perplexed look and drifting attention.

Willow smiles back at Anna, and she smiles at Tara. It takes Tara a while to figure it out. It takes her a while to believe it, too. But, Willow is patient, and one day when the three are lying on the bed in a puddle of sunlight, she reaches over a drowsy Anna and gives Tara a gentle kiss. Tara finds that she likes kissing Willow. Eventually, they move Anna to the crib, watching as she falls asleep with a contented sigh.

Tara's shy about her body. She's still rounded with milk and baby-weight, but Willow doesn't care. Willow's clever fingers trace her breasts, learning their fullness; they move down the faint line that bisects Tara's abdomen and lower still. Tara finds ticklish spots and shiver spots and spots that make Willow gasp.

After, they lie together in the sun-washed bed and listen to the birds in the trees and Anna's tiny sleeping-baby noises. They rest and touch and kiss, and begin again.

i like my body when it is with your
body. It is so quite a new thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
i like your body. i like what it does,
i like its hows. i like to feel the spine
of your body and its bones, and the trembling
-firm-smooth ness and which i will
again and again and again
kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,
i like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz
of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes
over parting flesh . . . . And eyes big love-crumbs,

and possibly i like the thrill

of under me you quite so new

15. (stooping through the morning)

It's just an ordinary day. The alarm has been turned off, the shower taken. A cup of coffee downed, a Pop-Tart grabbed. Coat and keys and wallet and watch all tucked and placed and buckled and zipped. Shoes are tied and dishes tidied. The clock shows time to go, and yet Xander hesitates.

His shoes make no noise on the thick carpet, and he leans in the bedroom door, hungry for one more glance. Spike is there, fitting himself into the warm spot Xander left in the covers, his head lying in the gentle bowl of the pillow, eyebrow dark against the stark white of the linens. A tuft of icy curls, the angle of his face, one foot and the pale, elongated splay of one hand are all that venture outside the blankets.

He doesn't breathe, doesn't snore, doesn't drool - he simply is.

Xander's own breath catches in his chest as he looks at his life, his heart, his reason for being, sprawled in his bed. He never knew that love could hurt. That's how he knows that he's never truly loved before, and the pain is real, it grounds him; he fetches up against it like a wave to the shore and, like the wave, he goes where he is drawn. Standing next to the bed he reaches out and touches that lax hand, drawing a work-roughened finger down skin as white and smooth as cream.

He'll be late, but he doesn't care. It's just an ordinary day.

in spite of everything
which breathes and moves,since Doom
(with white longest hands
neatening each crease)
will smooth entirely our minds

-before leaving my room
i turn,and(stooping
through the morning)kiss
this pillow,dear
where our heads lived and were.

16. heroic happy dead

The desert is a special kind of hot - the kind that makes you sweat from every pore, the kind that makes that sweat mix with the fine coating of sand that's been on and in your skin for months to make a slick film of gritty mud. It dries there sometimes, and flakes away like the paper-thin layers of mica, the quartz making it gleam and shine. Other times, the sweat just comes back - mix, remix. It never ends.

You look at people differently in a war zone. You see their hearts - not literally, if you're lucky. Most of them are just scared kids, but some of them are scared kids with big brass balls. You hope you're one of those. Late at night, you sit on a secluded corner of the roof and smoke a cigarette, and when the new guy sits down, you offer him one.

Turns out he's not so new. Older than he looks; he's been around. He doesn't talk about it, but the scar on his face tells the story. Looks like he just missed losing an eye. You smoke together, and watch the fence line, wondering if tonight will be a quiet one or one of those with flash and boom and watching the sand jump on the ground, watching the insurgents try again.

Turns out it's a quiet night, and when the new guy, Harris, leans close, you can see the glitter of the sand on his skin just before he kisses you.

"next to of course god america i
love you land of the pilgrims' and so forth oh
say can you see by the dawn's early my
country tis of centuries come and go
and are no more what of it we should worry
in every language even deafanddumb
thy sons acclaim your glorious name by gorry
by jingo by gee by gosh by gum
why talk of beauty what could be more beaut-
iful than these heroic happy dead
who rushed like lions to the roaring slaughter
they did not stop to think they died instead
then shall the voice of liberty be mute?"

He spoke. And drank rapidly a glass of water

17. Etcetera
Companion to heroic happy dead.

You don't ask, you don't tell. Never have, not since you figured out who you were, several years in and way too late to quit. It's not so bad at home - nobody really pays all that much attention, and you've probably added new definitions to the word "discreet." But out here, it's just not safe. This part of the world would kill you for who shares your bed, no questions asked. So you keep to yourself and do that thing you do - inhale, exhale; time passes.

The scar helps. You aren't the pretty boy you were before, buzz cut and ripped arms and a face like a Labrador retriever - open and friendly. The scar makes you a badass, and that works, too. Most of the guys who would be interested get put off by the mark and the attitude, and you've grown quiet these past years. You've seen enough to make it important to keep most of your thoughts on the inside.

You've been watching the blond guy since you got here, wondering where he gets the bleach and why he bothers, and you've noticed that he's something of a badass, too, at least by reputation. They call him "Spike," and the nickname makes you think bad thoughts.

Sitting on the roof, watching the horizon, you can let the act drop. He offers a cigarette and you take it. And, when the moment offers you a chance, you take that, too. His mouth is smoky and soft and your question is answered.

my sweet old etcetera
aunt lucy during the recent

war could and what
is more did tell you just
what everybody was fighting

for,
my sister

isabel created hundreds
(and
hundreds) of socks not to
mention shirts fleaproof earwarmers

etcetera wristers etcetera, my

mother hoped that

i would die etcetera
bravely of course my father used
to become hoarse talking about how it was
a privilege and if only he
could meanwhile my

self etcetera lay quietly
in the deep mud et

cetera
(dreaming,
et
cetera, of
Your smile
eyes knees and of your Etcetera)

18. the syntax of things

William's nerves are completely wracked. His flabber totally gasted. His gob utterly smacked. He stands in the vestibule for long moments, looking at the letter in his hands. He stands there so long that Xander comes looking for him, shuffling in slippers and robe, bedhead towering, eyes sweet and sleepy and a little worried.

"What is it, sweetheart?" he asks, hand gently cupping William's elbow. "Is something wrong?"

William wants to say something; wants to smooth the concern from Xander's beautiful face, but words have failed him. His fingers are nerveless, and he watches the letter slip from his hand into Xander's, watches those dark brows draw close over dark eyes as he reads. He jumps a foot when Xander whoops and snatches him up in a tight hug, spinning the two men around to land in a tangle against the antique brass mailboxes.

"You did it, you did it, I knew you could do it!" Xander's enthusiasm and pride stream from his eyes, and William relaxes and takes his first deep breath since seeing the return address on the rich, creamy envelope.

"I did," he says faintly. "I did." He lets out an undignified squeak when Xander picks him up and flips him into a fireman's carry, heading for their door.

Old Lady Schultz peeks her head out her door as Xander sweeps by, telling her, "Sorry for the noise, but my boyfriend's gonna be a published poet!" Her scowl turns into a smile, and William returns it happily.

since feeling is first
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you;

wholly to be a fool
while Spring is in the world

my blood approves,
and kisses are a better fate
than wisdom
lady i swear by all flowers. Don't cry
- the best gesture of my brain is less than
your eyelids' flutter which says

we are for each other; then
laugh, leaning back in my arms
for life's not a paragraph

And death i think is no parenthesis

19. a heaven of blackred roses

Joyce has been in the ground for moths before Hank comes. It's only for the day - Buffy's made it clear that they are just fine, that there's no reason for Dawn and her to come to LA, no reason to disrupt his new life. Buffy is angry. Dawn is angry, too. Neither one can understand what happened to take Hank so far away. No matter that he's only a couple of hours down the road, he's further than far, and there's no way back, really.

He's brought roses; deep red ones, and Buffy can't help but think that they lie. The red ones are for love, she thinks she read that somewhere, and Hank doesn't love. Not here, not them. He places them on the grave, and his lips move. Buffy's not close enough to hear, but she hopes it isn't a prayer.

Hank steps back from the grave and walks to the girls. They're standing under a tree, both with crossed arms and stony faces and sisterly solidarity. Hank slips an arm around Dawn, and she stays stiff for a long moment before relaxing subtly into the embrace.

"Let me take you girls to lunch," Hank says.

"Just a second," Buffy replies, waving them off to the car. As soon as they're out of sight, she goes to the grave and moves the roses to the side, uncovering the brilliant spray of daisies that she and Dawn had placed there that morning. She smiles, knowing that Joyce will understand.

if there are any heavens my mother will(all by herself)have
one. It will not be a pansy heaven nor
a fragile heaven of lilies-of-the-valley but
it will be a heaven of blackred roses

my father will be(deep like a rose
tall like a rose)

standing near my

(swaying over her
silent)
with eyes which are really petals and see

nothing with the face of a poet really which
is a flower and not a face with
hands
which whisper
This is my beloved my

(suddenly in sunlight

he will bow,

& the whole garden will bow)

20. if day has to become night
Warning: unabashed schmoop.

Growing up, he was pretty sure he'd never have kids. Didn't really want to - his time as a child had been short and sour, and he was sure that, with that sort of example, he'd be terrible at it. But he'd never counted on Willow. Bright red hair and snapping green eyes, she bewitched him with a smile. She gave him back much that he had missed - she threw him a birthday party with balloons and cake, did traditional Christmas even though she was Jewish, bought him Disney DVDs and watched them all, laughing with him at the Genie and shedding tears over Bambi's mom.

They married on a beach; they made Willow's friend Rupert get ordained via mail to officiate, and they laughed the whole time, even through the kiss. Everything changed and nothing changed and they built a life on a foundation of joy and love. They talked about kids and Xander's fears, and they decided to try. Xander enjoyed the trying part, happy to be at Willow's beck and call, smiling all the time and laughing in his sleep.

David was born on a Thursday, and it was the happiest and scariest day of Xander's life. After that, he celebrated every Thursday with some small gift for Davy and Willow - a card, a toy, a flower. The window in Davy's nursery faced west, and Xander liked to end the day there, watching the sun set with his son in his arms, whispering stories of days to come.

who are you,little i

(five or six years old)
peering from some high

window;at the gold

of November sunset

(and feeling:that if day
has to become night

this is a beautiful way)

21. a prayer lacking any knees

"Just let me touch you. Don't say anything; just let me, OK?" Xander couldn't believe he was speaking, saying these words, the ones that had been building and burning inside him, way down near the bottom of his lungs with an ache like the time he'd had pneumonia. They hurt coming out, too - pushing up past his throat and emerging all...husky. And maybe it was the huskiness, or the words themselves, or maybe it was the rawness of the feeling behind them, but Spike nodded. Didn't say anything, didn't sneer or smirk or raise an eyebrow - just nodded. Once.

Xander took one step forward, then another. The second one brought him close enough to reach out and touch Spike. He lifted a hand, and they both looked at it, watched it shake for a second before it came down on one leather-clad shoulder like a butterfly alighting on the dewy petal of a flower. Xander kept the touch light for a second, then began tightening his fingers, feeling them press against the leather and start to sink a little into the muscle of Spike's shoulder - yielding, but somehow not.

When he felt the hardness of bone, Xander stopped squeezing, just held on and looked up, looked into Spike's eyes. He wondered if his own looked so...amazed. Soft. Shocked. He was pretty sure they did. He shook Spike gently, a tiny motion back and forth.

"Hey," he rasped, swallowing hard.

"Hey," Spike replied softly; a lifetime in three letters.

a clown's smirk in the skull of a baboon
(where once good lips stalked or eyes firmly stirred)
my mirror gives me,on this afternoon;
i am a shape that can but eat and turd
ere with the dirt death shall him vastly gird,
a coward waiting clumsily to cease
whom every perfect thing meanwhile doth miss;
a hand's impression in an empty glove,
a soon forgotten tune,a house for lease.
I have never loved you dear as now i love

behold this fool who,in the month of June,
having certain stars and planets heard,
rose very slowly in a tight balloon
until the smallening world became absurd;
him did an archer spy(whose aim had erred
never)and by that little trick or this
he shot the aeronaut down,into the abyss
-and wonderfully i fell through the green groove
of twilight,striking into many a piece.
I have never loved you dear as now i love

god's terrible face,brighter than a spoon,
collects the image of one fatal word;
so that my life(which liked the sun and the moon)
resembles something that has not occurred:
i am a birdcage without any bird,
a collar looking for a dog,a kiss
without lips;a prayer lacking any knees
but something beats within my shirt to prove
he is undead who,living,noone is.
I have never loved you dear as now i love.

Hell(by most humble me which shall increase)
open thy fire!for i have had some bliss
of one small lady upon earth above;
to whom i cry,remembering her face,
i have never loved you dear as now i love

22. carefully everywhere descending
Continues from a prayer lacking any knees.

Later, all the stories have been told, tales of amulets and ghostliness and Africa and Rome. Spike stayed silent, letting Angel and the others talk. Xander didn't have much to say either, sitting quietly, listening intently and watching Spike from time to time. Once the talk petered out, he rose and shook Angel's hand, and Gunn's and Wesley's and walked to Spike, silently looking.

"Beer?" Spike asked. Xander nodded and followed, letting himself be led to the underground garage. Silent, watching, something like a smile lingering at the corner of his mouth. Spike drove a couple of miles and pulled into another garage, this one at a hotel. At the front desk, he threw down a business card and the bowing and scraping began, complete with a bellhop to carry Xander's battered leather bag.

In the elevator, Xander sneaked a glance, taking in leather and bleach and varnished nails and cloak of attitude, and saw through it all to the man beneath.

Behind the closed door, Spike got them both beers and set them onto the bar before turning to face Xander. A pale hand lifted to cup his jaw, a smile of infinite tenderness and Xander found himself laughing and crying at the same time, shaking with fear and sadness and joy and laughter.

He folded his hand over Spike's, like skin origami - hot over cool - before pulling him close and whirling him around, bodies making swirling spiders of limbs until they crashed to the floor, breathless, deathless, alive.

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look will easily unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands

23. though all the weird worlds
Continues from carefully everywhere descending.

"It was like being dead, I reckon. Not that I'd know - for all I've been dead a century or more. Was quiet, peaceful-like, I guess. Burned up, faded away, quiet place and then I'm screaming in Angel's office, halfway through a desk.

"Thought about you as I burned, love. Wished I could have seen you one last time. Had some regrets at the end. Regretted not being fast enough to stop that bastard Caleb, regretted plenty of things I'd done. Sorry as hell that it was over. Long life - hated to see it crumble to dust.

"Missed you, Xander.

"Being a ghost...now, that sucked. Could feel Hell pulling at me. No more than I deserve, but it felt like...darkness; like thick, oily tar, pulling at my feet. It wanted me, called me its own. Showed me things, things that made me cold, things that made burning in the Hellmouth look like a walk in the graveyard.

"I had a chance to get free, but I gave it up. Made a choice. It felt...right. Made me feel more the hero than going up like a roman candle did. And then, not long after, there I was - back to me, no hell snapping at my heels, able to touch and feel and sleep again. And all I wanted was to see you again, to touch you, to tell you all the things I should have said before. But, you knew, didn't you? Always did see too much, love."

but if a living dance upon dead minds
why,it is love;but at the earliest spear
of sun perfectly should disappear
moon's utmost magic,or stones speak or one
name control more incredible splendor than
our merely universe, love's also there:
and being here imprisoned,tortured here
love everywhere exploding maims and blinds
(but surely does not forget,perish, sleep
cannot be photographed,measured;disdains
the trivial labelling of punctual brains...
-Who wields a poem huger than the grave?
from only Whom shall time no refuge keep
though all the weird worlds must be opened?
)Love

"I saw a lot in Africa. I saw things older than time. I saw people with patience and hope in the midst of despair and disease. I saw people die.

"I thought about you a lot. Had my share of regrets, too. I regretted never touching you like this, my hands on you softly, gently - I regretted touching you in anger. I thought about what you did under the school and I called myself a hundred kinds of idiot for not letting you know.

"I never told you that I admired you. Your strength, and the way you always adapted, and the way you put your whole heart and soul into things. I used to think that you never had doubts, but now I know that you did; you just never let that stop you, like I did. Once I got to Africa, I figured that out. That living means doing stuff even when you're terrified. Funny that I learned that from a dead guy.

"Maybe I do see too much, but I always saw it too late. I didn't see you until you were gone. Out there, under the stars - and there were so many stars, I finally saw you. Saw the way you took care of all of us; the way you stayed by me after I got hurt. You always remembered to stay on my right, where I could see you, and you never made me feel like I was ruined.

"I finally saw you out there."

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

After the talking, they drifted to the bed. Words spoken, hearts laid bare, confessions told and heard. The world made clean and new and...theirs. They shared their first kiss, and it was everything either could have hoped for - sweet and soft and gentle and hungry and real, tearing away the fear and uncertainty and pain in the interval between the first kiss and all the rest.

The hunger won out, pushing them closer together, hands tearing at clothing, needing the contact of skin on skin. Xander made a noise when the patch was flung away, but Spike soothed it with cool lips to his brow, skating over the damage while murmuring words of praise for a face and body scarred by battle, marked by living.

Spike made his own pained noise when Xander touched the skin over his heart, remembering the gouges and scratches there, hot tongue seeking out the near-invisible spiderwebbing scars and tracing them with heat and love. He whispered words against the skin - absolution and adoration.

Their bodies pressed together, trapping rampant flesh, drawing out moans and half-words. Hands mapped backs and shoulders, clutching at straining muscle, scoring skin, fingers flexing into flesh and bone. Hands and mouths and limbs entwined, no space between.

They came together, feeling the tremor deep inside, moving down their bodies and through the bed and floor and ceiling into the ground, hard enough to shake mountains and soft enough to feel with a fingertip gently tracing from temple to jaw.

the boys i mean are not refined
they go with girls who buck and bite
they do not give a fuck for luck
they hump them thirteen times a night

one hangs a hat upon her tit
one carves a cross on her behind
they do not give a shit for wit
the boys i mean are not refined

they come with girls who bite and buck
who cannot read and cannot write
who laugh like they would fall apart
and masturbate with dynamite

the boys i mean are not refined
they cannot chat of that and this
they do not give a fart for art
they kill like you would take a piss

they speak whatever's on their mind
they do whatever's in their pants
the boys i mean are not refined
they shake the mountains when they dance