The Lover's Trial
A tugging, a displacement of
The self, a nudge here and there
Wanting to reach and thrust but the chill
Is the only present thing that keeps me timid.
Is this all just words and a revved-up motor?
Or am I sliding into something, becoming wet, and loose,
Running down the spirit of skin while
Making the heat of another's sweater a friend.
Taking away the cold stones one-by-one,
Putting them back two-by-two,
Taking away three-by-three, back two-by-two,
And so goes the struggle of my own.
When will the world stop scaring me half to death?
In this case, the flesh is freedom--it is my grainy rustling
From a cold tomb, turning to honey, lacquered into small sun-spots
Of all-giving eyes above and between everything I need to see--
Into it I disappear...
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