—YOU REALLY ARE QUITE A STORY

Every evening

is a mouth unglued,

yet still gluey.

Which do you prefer?

We’ve got all night.

But really,

it’s your fault

that makes me

feel as if it’s my fault

when really there

is no fault at all. 

You’re wrong.

I do want to

know the reasons why.

Look, even the

doves know,

hanging in the

silky shadows.

They’ve been

here before,

battling with

their broken wings.

They try that hard.

Just ask them.

I watch you sleep

on a Chaise lounge,

tiny tremors sparking

near the bridge of your eyes,

sun patting

your forehead,

sun kissing your

lips so sweetly,

sun kissing every

available space,

wasting no time,

smart as an owl

that has seen everything

and will no longer tolerate

wasting anything at all.

Please, please,

just let me

spend time here,

my old hands,

your new skin,

my tongue a

curious vagabond,

hitched finally

to something that

tastes like lemon and

looks like gold

lighting up my

slippery lips.

  

Yes, yes, it's true--she is that beautiful, spinning through a vase of hysterical sunflowers, pulsing under the eyelids of the sun, shooting through your pours like a burst faucet just seconds after having kissed your skin, leaving you permanently crazy.