These days you walk with a cane
made from disassembled cattle prods.
The red circles on your temple do not fade.
The lack of jaw control, though, has gone away.
Soon, perhaps, you will speak again.
The grass cries
and all the air starves
out words melt
ripe to eat. Discuss
the core, speak
of things best
left in dark
to attract dust,
soiled in corners,
a-rot in their snide
unused, your days
fall out the balcony
window onto the garage.
Pour toi qui fus au fond du rite
There is nothing left to say except “I love you,”
here in this place, this place we'll lie
for a few scant hours, then never see again.
There is nothing left to do except, again, kiss you.
This sacred time, today, has come and passed.
We must wait another week to worship again.
This time clothes you in dripping seconds,
salty, clear upon your naked skin.
We taste them on each other’s' bodies,
feel them drip from lips and noses,
fall to the bed unnoticed
until we realize the comforter is soaked.
Heat does this, and the speed of time.
It passes faster in the space around you,
rubs your body with its friction.
The seconds lend that tart cleanness
of their smell to the air around us
mix with your perfume, the smoke
of countless cigarettes, salt and musk
and the natural completion of this rite.
It is the gentleness
of your fingers
their moths' wings
on my breast
It is the force
of your lips on mine
after I ask you
how you've been
It is the strength
of the chain
that binds our hearts
to one another
There is no loneliness,
to the sight
of you walking away