POLLEN WOOL BLOOM

Gorgeous your nape 
like a velvety cape 
I long to touch 

in full shuddering, 
unshakably existing 
without mediators, 

riding upon Love’s clamor 
without bondage, without 
plenipotentiary-potential; 

seamstress of the depths 
of my Being invading 
my passions like sex-idlers 

touching a thorn 
to see if it really exists—
red, so much red, 

dethroning the dermis 
the way love blooms 
like pollen wool kissing 

soundly the vineyards 
of threads, endless threads 
of our inner-pink hydrangeas, 

camellias, or Carmilla’s scarlet 
desire, or the wear-and-tear 
of one’s psyche 

after a mastectomy? 
Let Love’s pain be lush lips,
a dollop of this, a dollop 

of that! Oh do you know 
how I just want to be 
touched by more than 

curiosity? I want my lips 
to be soft chewables 
in a staccato cursive 

around a torso 
like possessed machines 
unable to stop 

at the caravanserai 
of Life’s unending volcano-crash, 
blizzard pastels 

of livewires; retrotransit 
bodies elevated, 
who, like me, is saddled 

in-between spangled masks 
that you place on my face 
of irrigated circumflexes 

like torn music in our coterie 
below the swept windows 
of mysterious verbiage, 

playful circumlocutions 
sending our femurs aerial, 
making the floorboards lighter, 

houseplants shredding 
in an esteem 
of what could never regather.