all that begins in fantasy dies in memory
—fragmentary, torn—
senses working overtime to render:
body ringing hot and sharp,
subconscious sucking your finger
on the sidewalk corner, pull me
upside down and arched,
lick your tongue against my tongue,
palms gripped in holy reverence
—to feel your skin even now—
but when i die,
no one alive will know
to call to let you know
so i search for the immortal:
ration the rest of the smoke,
spend hours tracing maps
to find the pub marquee
—and i meant it when i said
that sex is soul and soul is sex
—so yes,
yes, yes, i am smelling metal
in my teeth after the rain, i am
eking silhouettes out of flower buds,
i am blinking my eyelids past their capacity
—i am tasting all that you left on me
