Sunday, March 04, 2012



it is 9 o'clock & it is warm
                       I put in writing
intimate thoughts & send them to you
nights when it was humid/
my dress
un buttoned to the thigh
when I assembled on the divan in anticipation/ in love/
            one ear
            wet against the wire

& in previous letters we spoke of wintered grasses
                                               & relations that secreted into blossom
but that night as you translated tongue to
tongue a story
                       I closed my lids &
sunk into another autumn one where nights do not clam
                                                                                            or clutter
do not snowstorm
the palms like an elderly woman
opening the hand in division
cooling or heating the fissures through severity
& that is the way I will commence my next lines

my lips cool themselves
                                                          lonely/exhausted/ end/less

a movement along white
a claim
            for all that is [mine]

Dear l()ve,

break off a fragment of the crag
                                   lessen the stone
that keeps us in outlying cities the length of the east

                       arrive to me in flesh expected
                        unclothed as the sun
                       split the laws of agility
be delicate before my knee
the small of your back deep in commitment
steady as the air we breath

allow me to stitch stir language along
                                  your vertebrae
the more we kiss the more I moisten into these lines
the more we love O love/ the less we lack

                                             & so I leave you without construal
                       a trekker on the ascendant wall
                                    a Costa Rica leaflet
trailing in the draft of an opened entrance

                                  but before the lights fan away
           or syntax forms into latte for two
consider me & my mouth
subterranean in your throat
a murmur or a partition of field less flowers
inelegantly beside the well
                                                           where we drink &
                       & we drink
                       & we co             llapse
the fragrance of that night on the wire
the wet/ness
                                 of it all

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