Rain handwritten in the leaves of the silverbell, their white trumpets,
slips of ghosts in the dark drawing in fast at my back.
Here I am in the inner courtyard, your face like a slap.
René Char said, bring the ship nearer to its longing.
Well, I keep trying,
sneaking out the windows at seventeen and throwing myself
from airplanes over the devouring seas. It’s no use,
like a ouija board, I keep turning back up
in the place where it all began, an ideomotor effect of the fingers in the mind,
labia parted like specimen, like snarl.
The lights of the interstate sweep with wings. Oh, Otherworld, I hear your
I followed the edge of the highway, keeping low,
esophageal tunnel of woods, hush, hush
and I sang the whole way north and every song was a psalm to you,
the you of my future lover, the you of arrival and advent,
the you that sprang from my guts every time I was hit or kicked,
green bruises like the leaves in the boughs.
The you of my being I imagined beautiful out of the penetralia
of that molt self. Promiscuous with love,
its viscera in the cup of my mouth. Brake lights of cars like hibiscus
against the black umbilical road, a house left behind, cut off.
The cunnilingual softness of night closing in, head thrown back.
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