Hand to Handle

Hand to handle hammer to anvil pounding whirling fire up opalescent skirts into her seamless belly dancing in a whorl of recognition she is about to take my part and break brightly through the silence of white stockings that tear and fly like dandelions or scattered snow flakes moved from sleep driven across adulterated senses in a strange room where she leans forward open with a distinct loosening of the knot in her gut an ocean of light like the buzzing of wings singing each of her desires one in the same with the world of objects culminating in time fire hips and snow with my tracks erased coming back just as she pulls



inwards great gasps of air thoughts draining out on the dirty ground by the tracks running lost past tall dry grasses with raised opalescent skirts hand to handle and one wing down in the dirt fingers sliding in between my fingers into my thoughts submerged in fire and heated gasps grasping at straws one for each of our mistakes in place of the place where I left my imprint fingers waiting for a strand of saliva to collect that movement of wetness lost in the movement of tall dry grass echoing return but for us there is no beginning middle or end time comes and goes pulling back to reveal some penetration some interference in my mind where I see your face and know you at last for flesh can only know flesh which has never known words you agree but your serious heart ruins the possibility of anything more than the dream the wet dream the daydream of polished mirror-like flesh neck cheeks and forehead and coming closer the shallow creases around your mouth and eyes so relaxed focused precariously sculptural mannerist not my eyes not as I know them when they’re closed there are only flashes of black and white still frames of imagined marble lips echoing the inverse image of a singular shape the tangent of a spiral spiraling hard off the page.


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