6.9.00

In deafness the only sound is blood throbbing and I'm bound to the apparitions of that maker. In a moment, a certain swing in octave and the waves unfurl behind my seeing my hand over your breast and belly and oh the topography that in silence I've often mapped from the peninsulas of feet around the bends of knees through the conflicted currents held in thighs (those still-less thighs dancing me) over plains of midriff and chest by arm caves to rest high on shoulder and suckle at sweet cane there: courses charted long before and memorized verse by verse. Pound me into your palms and pull at the threads that keep me from you truly for I'm holding your heart-shaped face in my hands and you are my animus goblet in the sanguine glows of a hundred hotel bedsides that strobe on even as I'm outside pacing before the entrance waiting for the bus and remembering now how I know that place and I don't go in for altering just one note of that passage but recognize you, you now the ethereal and potent one, reaching through the doorway for me who would sway endlessly on your breath.

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