Thursday, July 25, 2013

Through all the cricket sounds

I loafe in summer grass rooms-- shelves intoxicate me
it is my mouth in love with wood here and naked, nipples whisper silk
silk are loosed to kisses: a reaching of trees-- hills, of me rising
the earth of all poems, millions
of eyes shall look at the beginning
and end of this act--
in the jars on the shelves are bulbs and frog hearts
beating,  my tongue is a worm and thristy
for the dark room where it senses
its way


Last night a woman in my mouth refused me, refused the journey my tongue offered. This was the end of night. This bleeding is the beginning of day, perhaps what brought me to my knees-- little things in the stacks get me. The coward placed 2 circles beneath my tongue-- easier than a hive to dissolve, and my tongue welded them together like it must always be a maker, 2 sweet tarts filled with numbing powder and soft, but soft, went the night so I couldnt feel the ache-- blue ache, then green fading yellow and lighter, lighter till it disappeared. Be the day circles, triangles, deceiptful Softs or an unyielding lover, it begins with my tongue's memory. One never remembers the medium nights. Who wants them, I lie raised on deck, a blue heron in the pond, feet covered in patties of duck weed, a pot of turtles and snakes stew beneath ,  fearless or ignorant is the baby heron? I am sitting on a hive, recalling my fifth step brought me to my hands, write hand impaled by the needle it fell on, recall a stream of blood means relentment.