Midnight beneath the cherry tree,
your sighs find their way to my lips as whispers;
the ancient secrets of the moon spilt - in
sweet accent swallowed and spit as flecked epiphanies
across evening: seeding this soil leaden with a hundred dark autumns.
It's curious how clumsy words can be-
their meaning buried beneath the heavy earth,
(like that Indian feather we found while planting tomatoes).
The scent of centuries caked under our fingernails- of
prayers offered upon stone altars.
Our tongues, seraphim that search this sacred ground for understanding:
abstractions of philosophical ruminations, of self-abbreviations,
apparitions of Plantinga dissolve in syllabic sonnets. But
bestial and big; unsophisticated, and raw.
I wear you as war-paint veined under my eyes,
streaked across my cheek, through the cleft of my chin - down the tower of my throat -our hearts pulsing to the ancestral beats of a pow-wow--
(like that time we tried to master, "I love you", in Morse)--
.. / .-.. --- ...- . / -.-- --- ..-
in your supple hips; and I, a nova, torn from my galaxy, crash in your thick wheat thighs and feast.
I shall be gentle as I swallow every peak, and pool,
and Parnassus inch of you.
My hands rooted in your fertile frame mount with flaming wings to kiss the moon.
(Like that night you straddled my shoulders, and stretched to stoke the stars).
these fingers are tribal spears cast as caveats. They pierce midrib; etching intracellularly that we are the nucleus, we are the night- alas
your body is Alabama red clay:
it forms my palms, my wrist, my arms, my mouth-
is full with you: mineral-like, and floral, and sweet