Anterarch
her spine that musical instrument
I strummed plucking sounds chords and tones
in axis, the toothed vertebra
she turned her head saying she knew
everything I know she didn't know
about heathen nights and their shifting moons
or all jesus christs in christianity but it's a lie
as I climbed my fingers now in atlas
carefully completing the bone contour
even in her eye there was a grimace
the rain started at that unexpected time
hence the absurd and sudden silence of the dogs
before scared of the moonlight.
I have walked these medullary paths for centuries
watching a vertebrate world under warm skin
the panting breath of one who will love
and on the outside the metamorphosis that makes us replicate
honeyed songs and languid concepts of what's sensual
because the touch that compresses the column
squeezes and grabs the body planet by the spine
allows me to foresee the rheumatic pain of tomorrow
the thorny gorges we'll walk through in trauma
sneaking us away from the blatant truths
that no one really wants to know.
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