Yeah, sure, I want your skin
Umber, ochre maybe, burnt soft
Bits of green shading in
From shadows cast and curtains
Reflections from a viridian glass bowl
Smooth with maturity
Some bits ripe, some riper.
And yeah, I want the point
I find the edge of skin
Where neck, nerve-tree's stem and brain's trunk,
Sinks below coverings
And where my thumbs walk first.
Skin peels.
I sniff, and suck the castoffs.
Life's growth most intense there
Where air feeds on flesh's pump.
So. Here we are.
Tongue's ready now.
And teeth. Even the gaps.
So. Sap drips.
Is my mouth quick enough to catch it?
What's this stuck between my teeth?
Call it fibre, call it content.
Call it evidence of presence.
It's been asked: does a tree exist
If no one hers it dying?
Here, the sound
Of tree's fruit dissolving;
And I hear it.
Yeah, sore perhaps.
Sometimes avidity brings that.
I lick my lips, regard you.
Your core seed
As my teeth ridge it.
I like it that your core
Stays hard and with you,
Future forest.
1999
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