the tatoo you left on my skin
look,
incised
to blood, with the now rusting
track of your razor
nail tracks, seeds, stars,
rising
along the column
of my spine,
vineyards traceries
up the network
of neural
vertebrae,
the tender
cord, a ladder
of green, bones
a scaffolding, opening
up to flower
black moon
blossoms
on my shoulders,
impossible to say
how I feel
falling all the way
through the heavens
of your body
and into
the depths of mine
he'd let her touch him
meaning that she _had_
always--
and he _would_
from that simmering
a word quivered, plumping
with feeling, yet held always
the bitterness, constraint,
what welled up in you, almost overflowing,
a sweetness that tried to settle, restlessly
gliding over the syllables, so difficult
being formed against
the teeth, the roof of the mouth,
a bruise, that aching
melting into bones, palms upward
hold me down, into insistently fiercely
saying, afraid of vanish, each morning
dream bereft and left
to this most distant world
where I turn almost blindly
to the mouths of the crocus
with their open, bright purple
to orange groins of sexual
architecture, that had appeared
first in the beds
lining the edge
of the house,
an occasional errancy
of stalk, flowering in
the lawn, having
sowed themselves, leaves
sewn into,
there last fall,
as if I could find
in them the tongues
to flower all my longing
why say mouths? except
perhaps they mouth the air, colors
open as if singing, but
silently to ultraviolet spectrum
of bee or wasp, their songs
all sexual frill, fragrance and eye,
and eruptance, pistil
and stamen
that relentless desire
to resurrect flesh and seed,
and in the meanwhile,
a coward of crows
in the trees, still naked
of leaf and bud, lining
the street, dragging
memory back to ridicule, grey fuzzy bird,
camp robber,
cawing, jay calls, louder, always out
of range,
rage, you remember,
a black consuming fire
in the green woods, both,
a directed fury, that hour, both
tightening in the grip of the bow
may I ask for forgiveness
for the sake
of my tenderness, or not,
forgiveness is always less
than that word
I will not say, so, may
be, you should cling
to your wound
as it clings to me (that
rampant weed upon my back)
for the sake
of the burning that
touches to
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