In The Private Theater of the Mind…

Where weightless conversations occur,
where the Past nightly leaves its dirt shoes
at the door,
like a reckless blessing,
                              I had you:
ocean's cull & pale scow-salt on the skin of you
under skinned white rabbit pelt of a late sun.

Desire is everything and comes from nothing.

Nothing: water-drip-count to the forehead,
perfumed persimmon sphere ––the thought,
the taste before it happens––
                                   it can’t, won’t
sleep as I put my sticky hands on you,
as if for the first time
& kiss your exposed collarbone, my voice
etherized at the base of
your disappearing spine, square-
root of something that’s not ours, my face suffering
the look of that water, loose mouth of the sea
letting go its prisoners of stars…& just

for my fiction, your ghost-frame
syntax, your face for mine: a cigarette
you left, I’ll keep unlit
                         for those days, waking.