That I was alive: I suppose,
there was a certain eager meaning to
these moments–wide and short–these
hours–fat and narrow–these years
long and deep–
the stars, the lunging of my breast, the
turned curving of a sunrise, the rapid
expulsion of blood, tunneling suddenly through artery and vein;
I guess.
Looking and wondering; I turn my
hand over in a spent beam of sunlight. Its span tumbling with that heavy glow–it iridesces.
(I love you.
Knowing I will die–I love you.)
I am walking in some hall. There is the fast purring of a cat. Easily my breath inhumes and exhumes the space within my chest. Heart beating. Air and flesh exchange.
How easily it is to be–it seems these
hands are mine over your *******. I put
my fingers in your mouth. Your tongue
tousles their fiber. I make and unmake
myself in your hips.
The thick leaning of this chair into my back–where are you?
(Reading this perhaps.
And am I alive? And where?
Or dead?
Could be.)
And what is death?
Dying after all, it is, I guess, what I am.
There was the forest today. And five minutes ago I kissed you.
I am incomplete–I can feel
the way this shirt turns over the skin of
my arm. Somebody is speaking French on the radio.
"I will be dead someday." I want to whisper.
(I will be dead someday.
I love you.)