I
can hardly breathe without your hemisphere
sewed into me, this memory-foam of twisting willows.
My motivation died in your sleeves. In your nightshirt,
I saw contortionist-friction. Green in every direction.
Voltage lawns, sputtering moisture. Your hair, pulled
back, tightened to keep you from weeping, from
fracturing the pole star. To make these asteroids fall
upon me violates what you’ve previously seen from
my defaulter lung. Your eyelashes carry the meats of
my brackish tempest to the gummy lands of mushy
Americana’s orbiting eye, through marble caves,
beyond brass idols, beauties of the moor, the ravished
ravines, slayered meadows, dewy horizons of seashells,
glowing taverns of adrenaline, where I feel your ornery
mortars shaking the earth, where “attaboys” & smoochy
glares stack starkly upon these red-blooded soils like
stout, sludgy, buckling bridges bouncing the ecosystem
across the obliterated rivers of our word-terrain, cutting
a transit swamp through the abscess of our hollow speech—
hot breath on congealed gothic ice—as if we’ve become
Scrabble in an hourglass.
sewed into me, this memory-foam of twisting willows.
My motivation died in your sleeves. In your nightshirt,
I saw contortionist-friction. Green in every direction.
Voltage lawns, sputtering moisture. Your hair, pulled
back, tightened to keep you from weeping, from
fracturing the pole star. To make these asteroids fall
upon me violates what you’ve previously seen from
my defaulter lung. Your eyelashes carry the meats of
my brackish tempest to the gummy lands of mushy
Americana’s orbiting eye, through marble caves,
beyond brass idols, beauties of the moor, the ravished
ravines, slayered meadows, dewy horizons of seashells,
glowing taverns of adrenaline, where I feel your ornery
mortars shaking the earth, where “attaboys” & smoochy
glares stack starkly upon these red-blooded soils like
stout, sludgy, buckling bridges bouncing the ecosystem
across the obliterated rivers of our word-terrain, cutting
a transit swamp through the abscess of our hollow speech—
hot breath on congealed gothic ice—as if we’ve become
Scrabble in an hourglass.
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