Monday, March 14, 2016

gentrified town.

boy, i start to die, trying to touch
your lips of artifice that protest against
mine, warm-blooded. i'm tryin'

to teach you how to kiss; i'm being
generous- i'm convinced
i
need
your kiss. you
are somethin' to stare to at in
stillness, to place high above me. can i
carry on with my belief?

must i allow
exhaustion, humiliating me with its
blemishes? i can hardly
move my long body any longer. i am old.

it is time for one of us to go, time
to risk myself
and my idolatry.
you are killed. i swim again,

warm again. upon looking back,

i recall only my own movements.

you would not
die or live without me.