February 18, 2014

comely, fetching...

Edvard Munch
(1895- 1902)
Lithograph on paper

reed basket nurturing

the naughty words
and farm stand
were along
a dusty roadside
in my mind
full of yearn

signs said
they sold
shine once
by tongue
and hypnosis

all the faded billboards
said to me was
going by paper
is not a good way
to remember
big picture and
soft subtle things
all they ever said to me
was why do I ever
fight the elements
they take what they will
they take you and me 
and everything between us

between shapelessness
of thoughts 
and the fantasies 
of our limbs
our vine pieces
our tiny reaches
even what time attaches
to our cells 
when we surrender to
loving a lusty
thought of each other
here or there  
without care
at our mad faces
as they amuse us
imagining we are
squinting the sun
and I am begging you
by theft and starlight

I smile
to need
what I see
as I look out this window
at February lace stretched
in bowed light
I am listening
at the silencing
of birds
gloaming mouths
coming for herald noise
in shadows and
old hunger
spring turns
ever insistent
they murmur
on more

start removing
the insulation
by writing
only the wanting
only warming
by being
on fire
blanketing yourself
a reservoir twined
with velvet interiors

womb comb
honey and desire
write a poem
every way possible
to be in a moment
when you are
where you can be
whispering a name
while exhaling little kisses
into the air outside
the windowsill
as if it were their skin
and you were
a feast
you had
already been
a tasty piece 
and part of


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