Untitled, or, The Moon Knows
listens, lights my brow, waits for the colour-glow to dim
in my palm out of respect for her presence, waits
for me to tell of this thing weighted in my chest, asunder
down to stomach, waits, with wordless luminescent counsel.
Longing so deep, you mistake it for pleasure.
Loose, hungry, crashing against ribs.
My current of words flows, genuflects under her gaze,
reminds she has resided there always, held
my gaze as a teen steeped in stories of the fantastical,
playing out just past halogen streetlight glow,
oh, the tree line burning with the wine-smell of leaves, fire in the trees,
Bradburys and Kings and Barkers the prophets of my vocation.
But under moon-glow my unrefined coal,
words piled into wheelbarrows,
cascaded out, this kid’s green irises lit beige, heart as
a welcome as the yawning universe.
Now the pretty-pocked face grants mercy, allows
sitting too long in my own and shared darkness on the deck.
A breeze on my neck, as from lips. My ear tickles.
Glabella, they whispered, whisper, in my ear,
a phantom fingertip, acquainting itself,
That's what this is called. I like this,
strokes the radiant skin between my lit bloodshot eyes.
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