I kiss that cold space on your cheek,
a corner of light. I am on top
so it feels like I have the dick.
Feels good, right?
Waves froth and rise up inside me.
I close one eye, and see
the bridge of my nose,
as if looking out of a face,
my face. I feel the ribbon
tied behind my ears.
I am a mask, my sockets seeing
a reflection in the window:
rolling hills like a Grant Wood painting,
trees like an artichoke’s leaves
at the birthplace of Herbert Hoover.
Texture brings me closer to a tumble,
to absolution, the waves.
A church both rubber and angular
is what paint is. Art
out of some renaissance brain
but anachronistic, rounded edges
of history and the night,
which is made of dark pigment and light.
You smell like coffee. You
grind up on me. What is
the etymology of Dilly Bar? We
only go to DQ with the hand-painted signs,
only order Dickel whiskey for the rhyme.
Glad I got home before the thunder,
before the rain.
Stopped to take pictures
with police cruisers at the street’s corner.
The park is grass raised
to invisible borders.
Often textures in my mind:
the smooth meat of my brain
grating against the fibres of carpet,
these twisting fabrics veer inside.
Of static you can feel
in your gut, flipped, my knees doubled
over, and folded into self. Love
I love my body it helps me see.