my mind again returns to these thoughts of mouth:
the parting of seaways; the excellent bridge
of its voice; the smothering intonation of
its warm and bossom cloister.

i remember it in the new morning; naked and shifting of limbs.
it kissed down the back and tasted
between its thighs of sighing and saltsea–cheek and blushing.

i remember and i move:
the winsome drove of its dull dream
catch and habituate me. i am alone in its fingers; and even from which other kisses cannot wake.

occasionally there is laughter–i can hear–from way off.


there is the curving tremble of its arc.

mirror me
catch
this softly
snowing
outsidenight

where two and
three girlthings

the soul of boy
wars         rings;

hair in shortly
which some
*** wears

her mouth without
lipstick saying,

"kiss me–


       (i am soft)"

likes to be under,
O which
rough hands

grow thicker
more with

hair and fiber
of health

parting within darkness
its plait;

divulging

                      1

effulgent shard
of cheek

(


          through which
          heart and
          flower

                           speak
                                       ))

simple is works hard
and stupidly grins
at little this joke and
little that story of
fishing or going to
the zoo one summer
with his kids–

breathing and is
alive he (simply)

smiles and knows
without knowing

it is good to live

my alive:

   this awakeness seems to breathe

of being close through skin
to heart and muscles
singing softly stroked

by peach parted
over pit stinging;

the gross and fuzzy pash
bristles and bur
catching on roughness of
lip:

has two eyes
completing after darkness
hair in pale perfusion,

lipping with flowers
curled in mounded heap;

whose breaking sound
(star startled)
shook with saliva

–throat can't

               but to

                    unkeep

"enjoy what you can," says some curly headed mouth
open over the hard shaft of her camera
a thousand times a day
snapping
some
lookatme's:

                                    




                                         (and never stops *******.)

"*******," this if not alive if not dying of each buzzed ripple
of breath which tensely erupts
into uncoiling fold of morning
over the silent chord of sunrise

seems if not speaking seems
to eternally youth, breaching
the seamless cording of
a short girl's throat–says,

"alright,"

and
        "i
wish you
l o v  e   d

    me."