Blueprints for bridges, spread out before me
(these are the things that the past has taught us to draw)

Fingers poised over pen
(and so I'm unable to erase)

Ears straining to hear
(these walls, too thick)

A lecture on how to instead build a dam
(and I hope you know I'm listening)

To slow the rush of the river
(you speak of waterfalls and buoyancy)

Of all that is wrong in the world
(so thank goodness I can swim)

And sometimes it happens
That it wells up
A lump in the throat
Something deserving of more than tears
But so suppressed by well-meaning logic
Hidden by a dramatic mask, too well worn
of its true shape, sharp edges removed.

A vectorless emotion
Stuck in a maze made with walls of reason
The unreasonable contained
Rebellious without a cause

Yet so susceptible to a simple kindness
That puts all at risk of disastrous desire, calamitous confusion
Demanding release.
So, those poetic parents; Darkness and Light
In a tryst at their boundaries, defuse the danger
And make, in quiet conception,
Amongst the gentler shadows of the soul
What gestates and finally
In a spasm of wordy contractions
Spills live and ****** into the paper world.

In the morning, I read your poetry
sprawled on the table paper mache.
Cut it open, rub it into my skin,
the guts and blood are jasmine oil
or motor oil still hot from the engine.
I put words like permanence under my tongue
to save for later, when I want to run hard
and bite the bit. There is greed
packed into this. Knowing someone
like you exists is a slap in the face, a tease,
an anchor around my feet
that I keep as a pet. Never
have I looked across the well
and seen someone on the other side,
waist over the edge, both arms reaching down,
just like me. That’s the moral,
the gun barrel, that’s
the knife handle in a nutshell.
What’s real is the hole
where the air has parted for your voice
like the crowd parts when they see a god.
If this is dying, let me do it twice a day.
With this greed comes the risk
of seeing what’s under
the water and drowning in it.

I'm crying in the rain,
so no one would notice.

Oh, what sleep so soft in death
I would enjoy if I could hear
You tell of our passion with a silent tear

It is the taste of sea salt
On your skin I love the most

Eating shellfish from your hand
Sun, warmth, sea sand

Tasting sun oil
Through the brine

Capturing, encapsulating
Summertime

Licking ice cream of your nose
As we lay here both unclothed

Except for swimming pants
That make elders peer

And young men advance
As if to get a better glance

Shellfish swimming down our throats
Trickling on moist lips a toast

It is the taste of sea salt
On your skin I love the most