A Greedy Yes

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The stirring rhetoric of this space. Language leaking out of the walls, slushing down to the carpeted floor, my toes.

 

You do understand, don’t you?

 

Here is the place where a heart may beat if it wishes. The skin crawls without chronology. These hands are awaiting recollection. Our fingers weave the grammar, the exact notion of something well structured. Behind everything the sound of something heating. The point of calm to a wavy boil, your hands redden the skin into overload. Blood that rises. Filled with the sensation of being suddenly completed. The never to lose its strength found in this loose subjective weave: my name. I am not brought into this delicacy. Did you hear where my lover has gone? A silent sleeping, steeping. I point my fingers up to the sky. And a butterfly licked his finger not just yesterday, but when luck shimmied  down into his heart. How we hope, hold whole. How we unhinge from this narrative. Gender crossing boundaries, infringing into new territory. Strike me down with your story. And with.

 

The elasticity of not knowing. And the reader should know how his t-shirt slings across my shoulders, sucks onto his chest. The hair, the tangles in my own, my legs folded around hips like origami cranes. There is a packet of poems stacked up against memories. The rose bushes and the nautilus shell. The inner ear. You hear? How the tapping of ants rhythm me into a deep. And for a time, a treasure with a feeling of _______. Like nine dried olives hanging from a string. Lightning crackles in the shape of my finger moving. I whisper. Lounge into the luck. Hold into the hope. Sing into the sway. Here is another day. As where to make it into home. A breath of finally, the grammar grows. Greedy for the thought of yes. An absolute infinity.

 

Did you hear how the spider hangs mid-air? The shadow of smoke stacked against the wave (length) of legs. Here is a face that screws (yes, screws) into the pattern of desire. Dipped into that photo today, the one where you held my dog’s foot, belly up. Astrological meanings in your lap, a book. How we weren’t meant to know this lineup. Pick through the _______. We weren’t meant to concede, then. Then–

 

I am waiting to hear your legs. See your torso turn over in sleep. Greedy for the thought of yes. You may approach me. Behind the shoulder, I glance over the owl that used to hold meaning. The stars align, that meaning. She was not you. Six she’s stacked against years of wanting to know. The denial of desire weeping. An anxious smoke held in this world, my hand. As where it feels like living. Like life. Sun slinking away from shadows, receding into a textual pause.

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