[041130]

 

What can be said

of the hyper, deep kiss?

I should not have perceived it,

its birth is amiss.

Its swing crosses continents,

its mellow pole softened;

thy neck without grasp –

safe from the street.

Allure, yes, a chair rests

& so might your knees.

But your mind is inverted,

bubbling to meet.

And an error in cities

has mis-strung the cables,

collided in progress,

to bring you false sparks.

There isn’t an air clean

in anterooms & desk chambers.

No! I vomit in the acrid lonliness

of the Circean bedsheets

in an information feed.

I am grateful for this blessing

but no victory remains

in a solemn panel, twitching,

to be brought by savored deaths.

It begs of expeditions,

to rankle better steeds;

don’t fall within your night,

to sleep & dream of greens.

The churning gut, unstill,

can tell of roots,

of motors, microbes, myth.

But I’d like to see it bounced by hand.

I’d like to touch your lips.