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morning dear by Michael Workman |
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your skin the salmon-sweat and sunny masturbation of the magnetic stance of your legs magnetic of the cuts on your shins magnetic of your skirt's ragged hem, all a-flutter, like little lips, in palsic rhythm, deep-breathing the dusty room, dropping blank, a jug of wine the skull we see your face as can blood recall you to me? can wine, that is, in a bored glance, give any mirror to intent? all day I've held this still slyness watching myself burn as a rope would burn between your legs fragrant of a hemlock somewhere close to rock and crater feeling dirt define your chest I feel, to your shorts, the nets, a mouth, our mouth mouthing though caught in fabrics, nets, and kiss-yawns try to call us hungry ghosts and feed our time to another place, because when we sleep our faces are obscured by the same violent huge flower, we both bend dumb to its challenge, its beauty, both are broken by any metal, steel or safety pins punched through we meatly creatures, loud and cheap as rape |
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