I stroke your skin like a leaf and hold it up to the light, allowing fingertips
to go slow from root to tip. to sew the lining where two unlike materials meet. to code this friction into tactile intuition...
And yet--
I am afraid.
With this and all acts of temptress divination.
I, I...am afraid.
I want to read our intersection.
I want to see in your life-line. myself.
First, I will find the highways of your pulse-
watch as they give way to country roads.
Dissecting life-ways into bi-ways
where I can go slow from
root to tip.
rise Feel the land and fall.
from grass to hallowed knoll-
Throw me dirt and blow out your windows.
Take me slow down the side roads.
Next, I consult the creases of your open fist.
Gone are the fine blue lines -the tomographic Heat, and its rhizomatic beat.
Instead, you hold me in this underpass
[the clamminess and opposite-land of passion and speed] where [shadows cling and relationships keep].
You hold my hand.
To leave, and blast! - to stay, I will need a map.
Hide me here long enough to find beauty in the fine etched lines that paint the walls in broad swoops of graffiti: those cryptic tag-lines that advertise your witty, poetic celebrity.
from finger to wrist
arc the to the thumb
the pulse that could run on and on.
[our] distant reflection -a mirage in the rising sun. where