what a miracle each morning
to rediscover the symmetry of words
words in flight words in might
worlds of words submitting
to the geometry of dreams

what a miracle each evening
to feel the ripples of certain poems
in the maze of  synapses
a certainty each day I do not count
my naked body is carrying death
like an embryo of silence

what a curse what a delight
to meet myself in flesh and bones
as a road without beginning

Scholastic sterility decamped to a catocala
backwing dauntlessness.
You flicker in my hands,
mythic as the peplos
at your Prado stone-pooled feet.

My flint-flame Thalia,
I am the cautery under your brand
new fingers, the clueless mark
of your mad dash catzerie.

Tomorrow forgets you but for ivy in drywall
Jesus-toast imprints, your laughter in a hot slice
of ghost against my mouth.

Pupils incredulous
with dilation
hang stalwart on diction
and circumlocution—feed and bleed
affixation
on gold star delusions
of corpus analysis
and physical education,
prurient practicum
and conjugal conjugation.
Introduction to body
paragraph to bang-and-shut
conclusion.
Passion, pursuit, neuter, second declension:
𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘥𝘪𝘶𝘮.

his lips taste like rapture unguaranteed
and love me so softly that i wonder if i'm free
but lately i conjecture, lately i still see
on late october nights - your face in that debris
(all we are now
is remnants in the sea
all we are now is a raging
memory)

maybe I saw her
at the laundromat
and just missed her,
I was looking for a change,
while she walked
away.