The solstice and the whole grip is slipping
Bleeding out the inkling on a battlefield
Of a man stabbed and drained, healed over and strained
Staring at the stitching on occasion
The gray above the grass, the fog of revolving mornings
Stashed away like monotonous Wednesday’s
Bearing not the agony-joy of spending weekends alone
Or the recognition that the work-week is a feckless chorus
Mid set like sand rising above a shallow sea
Barely collected like a pointless island
Travelers could traverse to and from the shore
Yet the body lays languid in the mist bank
I recollect your skin
Like a raft for a man that pretends to need a raft
Feet, arms functional yet leaden with memories
Assumptions of beyond winter, hours uncoil from here
Time is enemy, cackling fiend of the frozen stance of
contemplation
Inventing operational progression by burrowing into self
The books of atheists lending hands in exchange for honest
rational accoutrement
In the pages all I remember are your curves like parallax waves
Undulating as caution and mercurial fancy
The motion has scent, intoxicating pheromones swaying from
siren to redolent-homeland
Ulysses be but a pedestrian
Anchored in the anger that the vessel’s boards are riddled
with cannon shot
Indulge me for the crest; be but a breath with my head in
the pasture
Of perfumed feminine follicles lassoing my guard to
vulnerability
The moment of perpetual motion like calculus
Undefined and approaching an approach as if how in this
instance of now
Is tangent for a measure inhaled and then left aloft in
recognition
Of a totality that keeps these feet anchored wanting and
thinking
And like an Artic seal finding a breach of ice
This patch of sweet ambrosial pheromones is oxygen itself
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