but as long as you’re there to
take it out on, it might just as well
oblige, the choked out sky,
the day’s surrender to the gray
written on the rooftops,
scuttling along the branches,
tearing down the street.
The way the warm leaves
the flesh exposed, held
tight in the gaze of
the cold hungry night.
This isn’t the kiss
so much as the taste
this rapturous spark left
in your mouth put
there by the kiss,
the lit witness to wonder
licked from your lips.
The mystery won’t have it
any other way. All
the words get pushed
around, the magic
this awestruck grasp.
Listen, it isn’t the moon or
the sirens, it isn’t the image
I left you on. It isn’t the clamor
left of every direction,
the stereos and dogs and startling
laughter too near too sudden
ringing through the night,
rising from some dark tumult,
some dread reckoning
your occult tongue
livid with blistering invective
glib with colloquial invocation.
These simple words laid
upon your blistering bones,
those deep waters
where the ache awakes.
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