Return to Poetry – Mature Content (R Rated)


we could walk a wicked mile and be besotted with our genius
although the canopy oversells us in our rapid insinuation we
rest in the moonlight, too stupefied to pretend we respond to
the influence of wolven genera, too human to be unlike the rest
yet there is one touch and there is another there is solace there
is fruition there is you there is me there is not spoken not yet
the ancient fleece that dew collects on for centuries of mornings
at a time beneath the sallow folds under our eyes do we see the
conundrum that is falling like snowdust clinging to our jackets
pricked out on a fuzz curl like a specimen on a pin did we drum
under the bridge as the nine o’clock train shook the trestles like
the world would come clattering down while we dare to stand under
dare not to understand dare slowly to confess in an act five of
shoulder motions that we smell one another gladly we adore
one another’s stench in the sweetness of night that we curl in
our gut when the cloud crosses over making fish of our one
being two writhing moanfully at the water’s edge.

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