untitled. writing.

untitled. writing.

-------------------------

 

craving   to  listen   and

   for that to be

  whole.      wondering;

  how much of my body was

  grown     while I slept.

and how vast      are the

   palms struck open;

      starfish on wishfilled

wrists,    that they may be known.

 

but what if, she says,   I want the

heaviness.      beneathwater,   craving

    to be listen.      fingers moving through

empty air,     first page.   second,     set

     the history of each touching;

what the air god could never empty.

 

through your center shudder; a barren

    road,    wind but barely.   fabric clinging

to the curvature of your grace,   still,

   after the strap slips off your shoulder,

still,     the sound of a ghost chopping down

    trees.     skin suddenly grainy with what

it is for.

 

stepping through a puddle the air

   filled with prayers.

 

touching your own face   to weigh

    the words,     to gloss with spit,

    with taste,         to trace a mouth,

still the sound of the axe,    the tree,

   still the saliva catching sunlight

beneath your finger nail.

 

your hair is a mess of leaves between your

   breasts,    you are beautiful for the tree, 

      for the calloused hands of a gentle

man     and clench your teeth against

           the fate of tender light;

turning in this meadow,   wheat mistaking

    your thighs for hunger,     turning this

meadow into    hunger   and your thighs

           and     my vulgar witness from

    behind the chopping block as it

all falls down.

Reviews

[poetickeys]

I love the stream of thought styled writings like these. I, too, write this way. Simply because that is how my thoughts play out in my mind.
Very beautiful