Saturday, June 16, 2012

The pink spare bedroom. I can taste


The pink spare bedroom. I can taste
her now, I used my tongue to make music
by shaping space that spirit's moving through.
I held her like a clock holds time. The walls

had calendars and posters on them. When
we were alone, she put her body where
I wanted it; we exhaled the same breath
about the architecture. She had stopped

to laugh about how slow we were, or how,
disclosed, we'd still neglected to assume
a yogic, unified body position.

My breath and hands were on her stomach when
I wasn't who I am now, when in some
obscuring sense I wasn't me at all.

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