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

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