Sounding Together
You're sweet, you bastard, she said, as I diligently looked
For where I'd thrown her knickers. I thought of maps
And the bodies they carry, as I lifted her off the sofa
And Mercator fell away, flaked, the contour lines dissolved
Into the tongue paths I snake on breasts, navel, pudendum,
Bum. Hold you here now talking flesh ruffle of flat
Projections no being stuck in two dimensions our breath
Engorges us, eyes, lips, hands enlarge engage the world
Into what it already is. Which is a tipped over bottle of wine,
You dripping, the curtains hastily closed, the feel of your cunt
Lingering on my cock, the calendar squinting in the corner,
A ripped-up map chewed in our mouths, the still globe
That hangs by your window, teddy bears, pronouns, clocks
And you telling me you fucker, it means nothing, I love you.
Best
Dave
David Bircumshaw
Spectare's Web, A Chide's Alphabet
& Painting Without Numbers
http://homepage.ntlworld.com/david.bircumshaw/
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