|
Earth worms slide together in wet grass
stuck with thick rinds of mucous—you can hear
the solemn bitterness of kitchens
without lovers who speak from opposite rooms
and dream of blank houses in imagined
lifetimes lived in with someone else;
lovers who meet again beneath
the sheets to hold wetness
still in their mouths
that pull or twitches into hardness—
a wicked hardness and tender
in the ends of the fingers or the genitals.
The lovers fall into the garden
to feel wonder in the iris,
her three tongues fold over in purple
tercets to spin a cone of three peaked petals,
a triangle she blinks with and wears a soft palette.
In the absence of a taut surface in the imagination
which objects bounce across
but cannot penetrate,
we allow flowers to bunch in our eyes,
cluttering there to confuse, the newness
of coming after weeks of not fucking,
the lovers squeak along the rim. And the rod
having leapt from the body
approaches the light as a fish—
by Joel Giroux
from: Larger than
Still Life, ©2003
|
