yet another poem about fucking

i feel a whisper
twisting between my thighs
traveling through my spine to my throat
singing about you
and how it wants to fuck you
in several languages
on several pages
until the syllable sinks
into babble rub rubble no none
no thing oh no stop go hard
its hips feel the urge of your song
its tongue tastes the fire in your veins
its pores have taken you in as itself
and kept you in dizzy and light
happy and free flying
cocksure
up

Ashamed

Me, myself, I — we are all default states,
all multiple beings of one accord, and
we don’t like meeting eyes in public;
One of us says, “Well, I think…” and
the other asks, “What about me?” or
two band together and say, “I have to
take care of myself,” and the other asks,
“What about me?!” again. The clincher is
when all three are lonely and I can’t
take care of myself, and others worry
about me; all of us cling to each other
but we each feel no warmth.

wait for me

beautiful,

i wish i could carry you
i would walk over many moons
brave many hills
to spend one night in your lap
laughing and playing like children

i wish i could hold you
i would crawl through blue cornfields
cry many rivers
to sing one jazz classic
braiding and brushing your hair

i wish i could hear you
i would climb under sharp fences
stage many coups
to touch one shoulder
biting and licking your neck

i wish i could see you
i would run across rope bridges
singe many wings
to kiss those lips
singing and sighing love, amor