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We should stop
meeting on rainy days
and for once
soak up some of that sun
we kept hearing about.

I don't mind it,
the rain,
when you're caught with me
in it,
a revelation under a raincoat;
It only takes a few drops
for you to glisten like
a stain-glass window.

Sometimes,
all it does is rain,
all we do is laugh.

Dressed in gray and pale,
blending into the clouds
like how a Sunday stew
gets into the air,
like how
love gets in your bones.

We could stop
meeting on rainy days
and drink moonlight
like it was absinthe,
indulging in
serenades and waltzes.

We shall have rainy days,
we shall have sunny days,
and when
all it does is rain,
all we'll do is laugh.
What name can I give you?
Surely there are none
and it is pointless to try,
like giving names to
celestial bodies,
or quantum particles.  

I thought I could capture it,
that the gaps would be filled in,
like space between
crocodile teeth
clasped on a zookeeper's hand.
I thought
If I could paint like Wyeth,
I'd have my Helga.

What name do I give you?

Maybe Odessa,
laughing on the crest of a wave,
dragged by purple currents,
among gulls on Earth,
and storms in the sea?

Perhaps Athena,
with gleaming eyes
and an owl in your hand?

Or Queen Maeve,
raw with beauty,
buried upright
facing your enemies?

Infeasible,
but it must be something,
for the shake of necessity,
So as to call out when
loitering on lake's edge,
or from across a room
when I see you there,
uncanny as my reflection
in a convex mirror.

I'll call it out.

It's not that I want to,
but that I do;
Just as frogs jump,
just as the tongue
pushes on the aching tooth,
I see Venice in
cheekbone crevices,
smell Vienna in a tangle of hair.

This tropism is
an elephant stomping
the marrow out of me,
and it's alright,
it feels good,
and Wisdom is her name.
I ate the whole world to find you.
Yesterday, and days before,
these are just bohemian villages to me,
where a boy flies a blue kite,
sees the sun on your back
and rainclouds in synecdoche.

Today, tomorrow,
but mostly today,
when the clogs blossom
yellow daffodils that
hide bare hairy heels,
bold and black
as Twiggy mascara.

A thousand phone calls later,
there won't be an answer.

For all our intermissions
were like cancer
ward smoke breaks.

Purple hands stained yellow,
with a dark blue mouth saying,

"Hold me, please just hold me".

Even if just for the warmth,
warmth which was
lacking here,
as cold as inside Russian tanks.

We hugged,
with all the surprise and violence
as an acid attack
on supermodels face,
we hugged.

Then after that,
tried as Latvian money,
half-alive in a ditch
pining over you,
the way a cat's tongue
pines for milk and breadcrumbs,
Tasted like salt, they did,
The tears that were shed,
Giving drinks to the mice.
The sun first rose
when I set sight on you,
the one who crushed up
all credence
with mortar and pestle,
pulverized until
finer than milky
Spanish sand
under the bare foot
of a fat British tourist,
gazing at half-buried
Camels mouthing
the words

"fumar mata."

In a desert,
I waited for dawn,
I danced for rain,
I thought of you,
and that somewhere
there was a little stray
dog lapping up puddle-water,
a Polish beer bottle pressed
to a drunkard's swollen lip,  
like a hose filling up
a plastic blue paddling pool,
while the children stood in the sun.
At the day's final stretch,
while Sarah, our
lady of circumstance
with Cherub's complexion,
shifted through the multitude,
trying to lay her lips on
every boy in the room.

Belladonna took my hand,
ambled down the field,
skipping over
any affairs of the heart.

I thought of mono,
of cold sores,
embarrassments
of a hazy morn'
and of the mob's eyes.

With no apologies
she went on
feasting away as a
red-bellied
stickleback would,
then carried out
Caesarean section
on walls of plastic,
on walls of flesh.

Laying there,
intimate as rotting wood,
one of us asked
"Do you do this often?"
the other aching forward
"Hardly ever."
I was sitting.
She was sitting too,
only a little away from me.
Sill, close enough
that I felt her breath
when she spoke to me,
imagine,
me.
When she was not speaking,
it was me that took over the role,
albeit unwillingly as
my own voice was like
an instrument being
mangled against her choir of one.
Or it was silence,
which we both savored
without making it known,
floated in it,
the silence,
it was all,
save for a few
incidental sounds that sounded
still filling what void of what there was.
All that I hoped for,
if hope is what it is,
emanated from her
when and if she was speaking
or not speaking,
when I felt her breath
or when I felt her silence.
We, now that’s a thought,
could have been said
to be happy then,
there, sitting happily together,
which we ourselves alluded to,
we weren’t about to
follow the rabbit
down into that hole,
not that we didn’t want to,
but could not.
There, which must
have been inside because
outside we could smoke,
but she didn’t smoke,
and I didn’t then either,
and maybe ever not at all had done,
or did, once,
but not there,
inside,
among music
and the steaming cups
that were filled with hot chocolate,
or maybe it was hot milk,
or tea,
which at the very least was hot,
but also it could have been
that the tea was cold,
or white,
or morning,
or evening,
or black,
or yellow,
or chamomile,
or mint,
or jasmine,
or Oolong,
or tandoor,
or gunpowder,
or ginger,
or gray,
or green,
or earl grey,
or assamor,
or Darjeeling,
or hibiscus,
or keemum,
or chai,
or masala chia,
or Kenyan,
or English breakfast,
or chia again,
or Irish breakfast,
or lunch,
or brunch,
or dinner,
or brinner,
or supper,
first or late,
or matcha,
or herbal,
or fresh,
or fermented,
or poured from a height,
or from a bottle,
or ***.
Or maybe it was coffee?
The portions of what
swirled and sloshed in our cups
were drank none the less.
We tried not drink it all at once,
for when were we to know
when another would come around?
Slow down, she said,
slow down and savoir it.
I tried.
She knew the how
and the why of why
I wanted it all at once,
but that really it should have
been everything
taken in smaller increments.
Little doses of a little pleasure,
or great rhapsodic
sporadic swathes of enrapturing bliss.
She filled me with the latter,
or both similarly and simultaneously.
The table,
which was really more
of a countertop in the wall,
didn’t hide much of anything,
not in the very least if
I leaned back,
and I did lean back,
and if I bent back,
I saw all of her,
her and her everything,
unobstructed by the table.
I could look into her eyes,
and would not have averted the gaze,
until I did,
so as to have her think
I was not the kind to gape or gopp,
but I was, I was.
A gapper; a gopper too.
But she was as bad as I,
more or less,
which I wouldn’t think
for a second if I had not caught
her gapping too,
and at me no less!
Dispute the equilibrium,
the balance we had,
we restricted our respective
stares respectively.
When her eyes were not on me,
I took in all of her,
head to toe,
and every last bit in between.
Every time her attention was
elsewhere was an opportunity
to take in a part of her,
to burn it onto my mind.
From the bottom, to the top,
slowly as if in danger of the bends,
I stole another glimpse.
At said bottom,
not her bottom,
which is also nice
but the bottom of her were
two black boots.
I wondered how hard
she could she get me a kick in those.
Then, moving up remember,
the socks, they were pink and
protruded out over
the top of the boots,
they could have been
pulled up higher,
they could have been
dragged down lower,
under the boots,
where they’d be invisible to all.
Next, and before
the trouser leg began,
there was the better
and actual leg,
leg of bare milk pale flesh
which for the first time I noticed
was populated with short, light hair;
I did not know then if the hair
was there because it was winter,
it must it been,
not that that was the reason it
must have been so,
but that it was winter,
possibly autumn,
why else would the drinks
have been hot?
Would the hair have been there
on the summer leg?
I would hope so.
There we go with hope again.
I would rather her
have the hair there
on the bare leg anytime,
if that’s what her wont was.
Possibly, I’m wrong.
Again.
Perhaps the legs,
the knees, the thighs,
the hips, the parts wrapped
up under dark red trousers
that were just tight enough
to make out the shape of them,
were thus because
she hadn’t need for them
to be otherwise.
But I couldn’t have been
the first one to look,
to notice, to wonder.
I couldn’t.
All I knew was that
I wanted to kiss those legs,
from the ankles,
and work my way up from there,
fall on my knees and
on my knees kiss them,
again, and again,
then go back around,
and perhaps just take
to improvisation at such a point,
for one arrives at such a point as that,
the particulars case to hold importance.
Other things to hold.
The other particulars at hand.
Then the abdomen,
the middle part with
the belly, ******* and back,
of which I would rub
out knots if she asked me,
indeed would do anything
if anything was asked of me,
be it to oil,
scratch,
shave,
wax,
lick,
or stroke.
Then,
only then,
the shoulders
comprising arms
comprising hands
comprising fingers.
I sat transfixed on
the gestures her hands
made as she spoke,
as well as my
fixation on the neck,
which along with the lips,
were the parts I felt
the strongest urge to kiss.
Bent over double,
my spine crinkling
and made from tinfoil.

Like an old concertina,
you wheeze from
the stress of it all,
so do I, quietly
to myself.

You're startled upon
an anthill's discovery,
as if it were found in
a lover's rumpled bed.

Beetles clamber away,
away from the sweat,
from the sighs
given freely away
to Mother Earth,
or anyone who'll listen.

An emerald frog
springs from
a verdant patch,
into a wet ditch.

Unkind to the body,
is this toil,
but the thoughts roam,
like a pig in muck,
laughing,
if it could.

White cotton flowers
coat the ground,
like peckish gulls
         on a landfill,
or a sailor's corpse.

After tracks are made,
here left for there,
blood trickles
down shins,
knee-deep
in brambles.

The nest of the lark,
the hive of honeybee,
the owl doesn't dare,
the sweet tooth,
nor bare hand,
doesn't dare.

I go on walking,
with Quasimodo slouch,
feeling the spring
of the cracked ground,
kinetic and tepid,
under my own weight.

I could sleep
easy and dreamless,
away in a damp ditch,
pillow of frogs,
(still soft emeralds)
blanket of muck,
stiffening under
the sun on high,
shimmering soft and
red as a Bolshevik.

Then,
in 2,000 years,
I'll join them,
those who I saw
in a museum once,
with skin like
bog oak,
jaws ajar,
with eyes of dust,
they couldn't
look away.
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