come inside my room tonight.
i will take your singing voice at the door;
i will wash your feet in polish flowers;
and we will talk about old lovers.
how you slept nude in their honey bedsheets -
hair fondling the carpet like Rapunzel’s dream
while you were the cherry pyre in his teeth
that spit a grey constellation;
a highway’s whisper divorced from concrete.
wrap each other in old vacation maps,
sitting before the television’s pneumonic stutter,
prescriptions wrapped upon the dresser.
shed these last seconds of day
in this sheet music of the planet’s fingerprints;
bottle of merlot still-burning.
now there is just the folklore
and great mythology of your embrace
that i’ve heard people say through a web of ears
was like Apollo dragging his tail ‘round niagra falls.
it waits and it winks from behind a veil of smiles;
a subjective love,
a fond crushing where
pomegranate juice creeps through fingers and
obscures my stranger lips
while your head remains sold to the heavens.
this telephone’s cut, this television’s gone dumb,
there are cherubs in the attic,
and the moon is still Caesar:
fusing a dagger with his own hysterical throat
behind locked doors and clouds and trumpets.
open the window; your language is snow
piling up on my shoulders.
wearing a dress of journal tongues
where timid ash accents every seam,
i feel that i’m but one more dream of yours
scheduled to drive south by the morning.