Lie there, you, a riddle under
dimestore sheets, such as washed on
the world’s last day and redolent
of tattoo breeze.
As fallen into soft lumps, part
and parcel, measured in rattled
shades, slanted to the sight
of not them and not when.
Hey there honey,
nudge and a wink,
shove me loose-back, put down
toe-to-top, roll thin lines with
that silly mouth, take guilty
gilded nourishment from a lord-god
not anywhere we can point to.
The voice of your pulse, a
hemlock whisper under my finger
and tucked into the mattress,
maybe. Where bitter-sided mites
nibble and invisible magnets
draw us together in release of
days. And what were you once,
a ghost kiting high on chill-bone
breeze. No care about cold or
height. Slipped by me across
ruined roofs, through bare elms,
the road a melting narrow. Past
the sign that read SLOW. Past
fields where sunflowers gamed
a path of no retrace. SLOW to the
never warm winter and flecks
in the fog pretending to be crows.
