Feb 2018
there’s a woman
in Minneapolis
where winters mind-bend, her face on my hands engraved,
she makes my fingers love her once more, saying I am the
real dream come see me when you can, I’ll give you summer
when the calendar says no, but you know I can
in Paris
a woman in the shape of a young girl,
her eyes wider than a grand boulevard,
who writes me in scattered verses I can’t comprehend
takes my hands in the metro on our way to
St. Germain-des-Pres, where she will make confession
she loves another, forgetting that was her first reveal
and why I now love her maintenant, plus complètement
in northern California
my golden raisin with smooth skin, six foot tall and gold hair
longer than Rapunzel, and don’t know what she wants from
this short older eastern man and when I ask she laugh kisses
saying because you are everything I am not, an acorn of real,
Vermont maple syrup for my green grapes and bring me scents
of genuine that your pores secrete
a married woman in Florida or was it Texas
who says come inside me, you are already there, make it real,
we will sail from the Gulf to the Keys in the escape pod
of our specters, our blunt physical connection,
we’ll go ashore for barbecue when we need
a break from consuming each other and tire of tarpon
in London town
who impaled me with dreams of wet walks on the moors
I’ve never seen except in her poetry; she will warm me with porcelain tea and bitter pints from hide-away pubs, both drinks I despise but will love If she asks: will share chips and wine waiting for the tube or the boat to Greenwich, where we will ask time to suspend itself for a day or two so we can sing old Donovan tunes and be each other’s scarf against that ****** chill we know is coming
I am
their fantasy, their harsh escape to sweet caress for hours
they surrender to my desires for that’s what they’re wishing for,
in our peculiar language, no word for a sorrowful au revoir
or even,
will I ever see you again or even for
peculiar
for we are a physics mystery
a singlet and a multiplet simulation simultaneous,
spectral lines
to call them muses would be an abusal, they are lovers
of spun words I profess in devotionals made just for them,
and lovers for devouring and feasting and then fasting
until I dream once again come tomorrow’s sleep-writing
satisfaction
2/9/18 3:47am
in Minneapolis
where winters mind-bend, her face on my hands engraved,
she makes my fingers love her once more, saying I am the
real dream come see me when you can, I’ll give you summer
when the calendar says no, but you know I can
in Paris
a woman in the shape of a young girl,
her eyes wider than a grand boulevard,
who writes me in scattered verses I can’t comprehend
takes my hands in the metro on our way to
St. Germain-des-Pres, where she will make confession
she loves another, forgetting that was her first reveal
and why I now love her maintenant, plus complètement
in northern California
my golden raisin with smooth skin, six foot tall and gold hair
longer than Rapunzel, and don’t know what she wants from
this short older eastern man and when I ask she laugh kisses
saying because you are everything I am not, an acorn of real,
Vermont maple syrup for my green grapes and bring me scents
of genuine that your pores secrete
a married woman in Florida or was it Texas
who says come inside me, you are already there, make it real,
we will sail from the Gulf to the Keys in the escape pod
of our specters, our blunt physical connection,
we’ll go ashore for barbecue when we need
a break from consuming each other and tire of tarpon
in London town
who impaled me with dreams of wet walks on the moors
I’ve never seen except in her poetry; she will warm me with porcelain tea and bitter pints from hide-away pubs, both drinks I despise but will love If she asks: will share chips and wine waiting for the tube or the boat to Greenwich, where we will ask time to suspend itself for a day or two so we can sing old Donovan tunes and be each other’s scarf against that ****** chill we know is coming
I am
their fantasy, their harsh escape to sweet caress for hours
they surrender to my desires for that’s what they’re wishing for,
in our peculiar language, no word for a sorrowful au revoir
or even,
will I ever see you again or even for
peculiar
for we are a physics mystery
a singlet and a multiplet simulation simultaneous,
spectral lines
to call them muses would be an abusal, they are lovers
of spun words I profess in devotionals made just for them,
and lovers for devouring and feasting and then fasting
until I dream once again come tomorrow’s sleep-writing
satisfaction
2/9/18 3:47am
A spectral line is a dark or bright line in an otherwise uniform and continuous spectrum, resulting from emission or absorption of light in a narrow frequency range, compared with the nearby frequencies. Spectral lines are often used to identify atoms and molecules. These "fingerprints" can be compared to the previously collected "fingerprints" of atoms and molecules,[1] and are thus used to identify the atomic and molecular components of stars and planets which would otherwise be impossible.
