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.
in the working-out-of things.
I whisper--
|
See, brother,
I killed the coyote.
I killed the coyote.