In the black spheres of another’s cavernous
eyes I lost myself amidst the seep of my own
light patterned into strange foreign orbs
drinking heavily of I
am borne on the winds of imagined hands
sculpting me awake. where I can dream-in
the voids between lust, where the nothing
seems happy, the night is my friend
in the convex meniscus of another’s iris
perhaps I can dream of rebirth in the titrating
wound in the womb of lust
makes my eyes search the ether. In the
womb of my lust there is wind in my wings.
In the womb of my lust there is more
to be found. to be woken into equilibrium
perhaps I must abandon the forked tongue
of independence, so that fanged loneliness
can die of happiness. the snake becomes
a docile bird when fed. the castle of self
becomes a womb in the kingdom
of entwined, sleeping hands. we are born
-- when I have the tenderness of a writhing dragon,
he will paint flowers across my throat
as though to remind me that fires are indelicate,
and that I writhe in a prison made of open space.
-- this man will not smother me with his skin
when we sleep.
-- this man will unhinge the door of my mouth,
and kiss out the bullets stuck under my tongue.
whatever thousandth day I awaken beside this man,
realizing I have become the flowers he painted
across my throat, by braving my throat,
I will, unchaining myself from the draconic worry,
bring him his coffee in bed, with a smile.
I often wish I were a gentler man,
pruning flowers from thorns
in the garden of words;
but what a small nuisance
as clouds eat the days
of red and blue sky
I devour my life to the bone,
is enough to not covet
much more than the dawn child of sunset.