i'm unaccustomed to carrying my heart
on my head across this field of mouths.
i know you lie inside one of them,
but my journey is long, twenty nights,
and my stubbornness accentuates my ******.
there are endless lips but only one entrance,
like rays of sun, the butterflies slow down
to the speed of parasols to pick up this epistle.
yet i'm unable to shake the maggots from my atrium,
you see, i'm alone in a park full of lovers
talking in tongues, fingers rooted in neck and hip.
yes, I wouldn't move a mile of you
to accommodate an inch of me. I'll arrive late,
eliminating holes by virtue of the *******.
hands are weights, and your wings
are elusive if not transparent.