whether it is we sleep, dream, and collide with desire with sickening, wet thuds,
or whether, in shorter moments, less precise, less pressing, less puerile,
we see those things which seem where they should be.
if, by some chance, you, or one of your friend’s hands,
came to divine those somnambulist’s pleasures,
please remember to drop some postcards about it-
as you walk away-
yet i will wander
like bullets with no powder
into, and out of, languid, grabbing fields
and perhaps my greatest hope,
as i am torn down by gripping shrubbery,
is that you understood what i meant when i just couldn’t do it.
a grimace and some spent out oil,
sinking slower into squeaking seats-
your voice echoes in my head
like it never should have
and i retreat –
punctilious, yet aimless
the better of less, the worst of more,
having not cleaned body or mind yet today
impulse stinging my palms,
and i retreat.
how i long for silence
and the rhythmic pulse of warm breath
a soft breast on which to lay my head
itself expanding, contracting, saying quietly:
“listen to this part of immortality,
and nestle your chin against precious brevity-”
and yet i retreat.
and fill in
and declare the need of clemency in smaller issues.
when your hair gets stuck in my mouth,
it reminds me of that time i spent on the banks of the river,
wondering how deep,
too afraid (or too comfortable) to simply jump in
and maybe (if i was so lucky) to sink to the bottom.