Look over your shoulder for the hustle of words.

Wednesday, May 28, 2008

A Transcontinental Note

Cold antipodean world;
You hold a thread in your mouth
a bloody hook pinned in your visceral self.
It draws me like a slim railway
across dial-tone and high-way and
through the dessicating, panicking folds
of your homeland.

Then pulled through the sea;
a snake with a sly flick
in the outer-most crimp of its tail.
When I am closer, the sound tenses us
(a taut miniscus of desire)
and we moan and billow to it, pressed.

My hands, two pockets of given love.
Your hands, two trembling triangles distilled.

Would that I could take ocean as paper
and bring the edges shut, thin as lips:
an oyster jealously swallowing a pearl.
Oh and us then entangled;
your hair a tickle, not a pixel -
your tongue a wetness, not a tone.

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