July 3, 2009 § Leave a comment
the stratosphere presses down on the skull.
the sky is soaking wet
and she says,
“this is cooling” as she shivers into my arms.
Her forehead is large and geometric, a still monument above the eyes;
glaciers, dear child. Take the glaciers off your mind and it won’t be so cold.
Her weight is unbearable against my chest, her elbow is in my stomach.
The organs adjust. It is a vile feeling when they do that.
Born under the jagged horizon
(born from the mouth)
The toothy maw of mankind–
its pillars, its steel beams
(my heart beams)
the wires that run this way and that:
Apollo gleams, all round.
“I want beauty,” she whispers into the nape of my neck as I undo her blouse,
in search of dry land.