Before you interpret this, I must divulge to you
all that is clandestine: his voice, a garden
always it exists in neat rows, lexis in the lungful
of forget-me-nots, the intricate identifiers such as skin,
accent, flesh; inevitably imitate events that slowly
pull faces as I pass the mirror.
& I spend seasons sleepless on his face, in the silhouette
of his body long after he’s laid it down. I scatter flowers
in breath--a deeper blue in the cherry, where I draw
his chest to a pause, carry him to the scents, each
so delicately decorated in the softness of rivers that utter
devotion. But his mouth is heavy. Indeed, I am speaking
of the tongue, of the nether sea, the vortex
in its garrote--no exit, a void, a lilac snapped shut.
& I cannot deliver. I lift his snowy lids, release the colors
into the sky, where simplicity permeates the air, & his lips
part affectionate, wet. I kiss his throat to pursue a sole
riposte, feel a constriction that tugs my hand, pulls me
back as the night that hangs nervous in the thickets.
Sunday, August 21, 2011
Babbled by Cher Ferroggiaro at 7:19 PM