It's navy-night streaked with dusty stars and cold sand creeping into places I'd much rather be. It's arms streaked with bits of you as entity glows in fickle-firewood-flare and your hands eversearching and my hands eversearching for all that is you in abundance. It's the milkyway in your blue eyes and the ocean in your smile. Every small beauty you notice. How every strand of freedom on your luscious head tells a story of the truthfulness one finds in people when they don't notice. It's your voice - and imagine strings - goosing up my skin. It's darker and it's glowing and it's further and we don't really need the half-light so we wet our feet but it should be colder but it isn't. It's almost there and actually there and you're lovely here. It's falling asleep at nine-eleven-two-four, waking up in between and having you to fill. It's the last draw of lips and your condensation on my neck. How you should be wrapped tighter-untilthegapsareallgone. How I'd trace every dip and rise, the lines that make the muse and kiss
Until exhaustion closes.
Your chestful echoes deeper
Your butterfleyes fluttering closed
It's feeling you
Splitter-splatter-splutter
Your story onto this stained canvas and making it worth a glance or fourteen;

Eating alphabet soup--

with mind-bent spoons...

goosing bumps piggyback,

skinny dipping.

Spectatorship's: know thy shelf.

Ill-placed.

Scarlet letter bib, cold-footed

baby steps...vomitous nerves,

stage fright.

Pregnant pauses--flaccid

deflation, upon a falsely infirm

plane.

Dubbed drainingly impassioned,

by peer rear-views.

februaric sun is an excuse
unfaithful quadruped is an excuse
Lappish light is an excuse
two arms i lie on maybe
downward dog hard hand everything under agoraphobia
and then march and then march and then march
two arms i lie on maybe

i am completely stretched out in my premisse and
abdominal is panicked in my oppositeness and then
some things bang in short moment calling walking past like
almost happened language like bangs and cyclical leaning

i believe you in dutch my head spins in angels and some times
i speak in mother tongues like six in the morning happiness

hip-snake i am mad about yourself there me cut you
fly me through italic parental dutch angles we look through shoulders
do i want to scratch your shoulders faithful quadruped

i do know either
i do know either
like an unruly suppressed strolling goosing noise missing like MIST
you read me