V

[DOVE / COYOTE] 

Something dove-colored hurts.
Colored dove. 
 
Colored coyote.
 
Are all doves 
so exquisitely nauseous with desire, 
or is it only the mourning ones?
 
 
Let’s say he’s the dove:                                                            

I make paper transistor mouth radios.
                                                                                                       I say make slow love to me, as spiders 
                                                                                                   turn threads in my mind’s cylinder head.

I then avoid why’s--
 
such as 
why did I not kiss the serifs 
from the parabolas of  his
teeth and gums?
 
I imagine each why unravels
at the cuffs God’s many 
sweaters of pretend.

Erogenous zones:

the occipital / the web of thumb & index /

suprasternal notch.

I divest many small mason jars of their lids,
imagine my heart oxidized, a lilac
in each of those open glass torsos.

I have a mind full of fleeing.
DTT. 
Phlox. Dog Fennel.
William Blake, naked, 
holding his wife’s hand

I stand on the bed, nude,                                 thus fled,
 
over the man sitting cross-legged 
beneath me, his mouth at the fulcrum, 
the pivot,
 
while somatics ferry 
into the future perfect tense.
 
And after--

         I whisper into door jambs, let’s not hang a moon 
in the working-out-of things.

 I whisper-- ​​

See, brother,
I killed the coyote.

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