Light clinging to my teeth, the pulleys in my cheeks
playing tug of war relentlessly, wondering if the noise of my smile
is singing through inadequate walls, I sail away
on the aqueous backs of day dreams easily, often now;
A fire I plucked from a match on a balmy Monday
sustained itself to live in my plexus and it wrecks me,
spreading light through cracks like crystalline dust
forming a haze in which I swim, sanguinely;
June living in my cheeks, Sahara heat
dances on the tips of my lips, two cinnamon sticks;
I am knowing, allowing, seeing everything
with the eyes of the Sun:
Another person has folded into my spine
like a note to be found later, to be read late at night,
speaking life to a secret, laughing sweetly,
revealing Herself as if She had been there the whole time.
Impressionist with Synesthesia
I have been so dirty in all the places you have looked.
My skin drinks in your iris stain like salt. We toss,
freely and with fever, a mirror all drained of luster,
often awake to view the pennied moon illusion bound
to waves. Our bed clothes, as trophies, litter the sidewalks.
I try, inside the sun’s palms and slighter fires, to blot
the spatter we left behind by sucking bullets from each
others’ mouths. With a head of wine, swimming in
the thickness of blood, I hold this illustrious description
underwater, a bold reflection crushed and served bitter,
honey-sweet and hot, staining the chalice. It comes gingerly,
brief but still fierce, and your leaving crumbles, stumbling
and clinging to your hazed and etched silhouette, rising
visible and liquid. Such a ripe and balmy display we
have become, a still life paradox hung on the walls of night.
