When you touch me
I feel a hotness in my crux.
Even when you don’t touch me,
I feel it. Touching feels
a little less sick than not
touching (flies hover near
the eyeballs, how could I
have been so blind?).
Touching. Not only are there no
easy explanations — there are no
explanations — and what explanations
there are are quicksand.
Mercury is silver at the root
silver at the crux.
Tide turns with blinkers,
even roars the asp.
A roar comes out,
swivelling hips in time
to the pathos of the libertines.
Libertines clasp hands,
go into the room. Squeal:
the excrement of being.
Flashing motel lights
undulant and quick.
The membrane of egregious
And what is this
but a spinning orange reaction
stolen from the quarry
of possible reactions, no more
hilarious than everyone’s
daily compounded poignant
endurance, laugh, rattle-whistle,
glottal stop, blow a bubble,
get a little piece of the frenzy
to hold in your hand, darkling
waking, sicker-than-thou, horn
Past perfect unconditional.
Present imperfect conditional.
Makes me shake my white mane,
gaze up brown eyes twitching
I’m objective as a groundhog
appraising shadow’s stretch into
unknown future coldness, as small,
as much a rodent chewing on
your imperfections in the loamy
burrow. Makes me shake the way
you write, clenching me with lyric lies.
Then I murder the kid, roast it in spit.
Amazing darling then the flight
to the object: electrical supplies,
parts and components, sheet metal
personnel — attempts to extricate
from the strictures of a state.
But I’m no J.H. Prynne with these attendant
sighs and fainting rituals, or someone else
who could write more tightly in 100%
humidity. Moisture splatters my intentions,
I rust, I fall, the wavy lines are heaving,
what’s the point? Patiently reaching
for my crux (again). Crux is truth,
locus of love, that cheating word
that rings aloud its weird redaction.
If, when I aim it at you, you do shrink
’tis thereupon, my love, that we must think.