.







































                        ­                                           ceci n'est pas un poème.































                           ­                                                                 ­                                                                 ­                  .

little                                                           ­                                                                 ­                                     bird



                                            

                                           the






                                                       ­                             tinly



                           ­                                                         kissing
­



                                                             ­                         of your wings


                                                         ­                             in the always






                                                    ­                                   stooping to kiss






                                                      ­                                  brightly morning are










                                                   ­                                   a perhaps song











                                                 ­                                                                 ­                                                    like
        ­                                                                 ­                                                                 ­                   (little bird)
                                                           ­                                                                 ­                                  the velvet
                                                          ­                                                                 ­                                 pocket of a
                                                               ­                                                                 ­                           violin



















                                       ­                                   rising























­
                                                                ­     chord
























                                   ­                                 'pon























    ­                                                                 ­             chord

























                     ­                                                             to the
























                                        ­                                         slender fragile aching


























                                ­                                                        immeasura­ble pretty



































                       ­                                                                 ­    of sky
















                                             ­                                                forever

which utters coolly out of totally sleep tingling
the unclosing voice of Summer
an enormous prism of kissing waits in sweat
and lakes about the necks
of mountains where the uncoiling bodies are
hard in skin of gold
and nothing hurts

and nothing's old

fast;

   the hyper
          critical
            athletic

rushing of perfectness

                    stretched


                    tightly


       smoking
         from
           between
              neon thighs
                        hips
                        waiting

           glow barely
                     skinny
                     painful
                     rose
                     bud

for ******* too long
                     makes HuRTIng
                     sound
                     where your
                     mouth
                                      suddenly

                          crumbles



                      into




                                        spit

i was 23 in the middle of winter there was a sound like creaking the whole world was hot and nothing was at the same time everything came stiffly in your mouth and you




                                                      swallowed

Rain)you enter me by the concise brutal slenderness
of your waist

you wet are thousands and mutely cringing on
my neck some

and scalp some

reeling into sleepier darkness
lark perched suddenly between

emits the frailest wings

and treads you into(nothing

i'm going to wake up tomorrow.
i'm going to wake up and i'm going to go into my bathroom and shave. i am going to look in the mirror. i'm going to look in the mirror and i'm going to tell myself a story about who i am.

i'm going to say, "i am Patrick Wakefield. i am 25 years old. i am Patrick Wakefield, i am 25 years old, in the winter my hands get dry and crack around the knuckles and bleed. i am 25 years old, and one summer i fell in love. one summer i spent a hot week in a small room. it was hot, and i was in love. and i don't drink normally but i got drunk on plum wine. i got drunk on plum wine, it was hot, and i am 25 years old. in the winter my hands get dry and crack around the knuckles, and bleed."