February 7, 2019

wet hill with many holes

The yolk drips and spirals
Spilling with intention the stain
Warm there on the white

Potted orchids comfortably desperate
They hang open sex gasping for
The wind that is just beyond the window oh
What the comfort wants

Listening, I am writing about the wind
Waiting for it to acknowledge me
So we can collaborate
How does the wind write
Into each other
Does it speak ambience outwardly
Or for its heat growing inside

Inside each others mountains
How is a stone about
Less than
Palpable as time
Like you
And me
And indifferently the most,
The hope at the end of the world
Of where things keep going
Less than everything,

Between two bodies at the park
Mother the mountain and mother the dirt are also lovers
In the middle feels so far away
forced rest between the edges
A knot does not retrieve
But ornamentally,
The leash is on the leaf
And the flies dance the sound
Into the air
Relieving self into a space to lay down in
The grass beside you
Rest feels like rain feels like rave
Mumbling where every soul is perfectly damp

I almost had forgotten
How it appeared to me in amber
The ant's corpse in my shampoo
And I rubbed into my scalp
The intention of a stain
Dead ant body shines smooth as cells
Politely, unpurely human in my hair
The ants giving body to the cannibal queen of me