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A treeseed and a mouthful of
Soil is the kiss with which you
Lay upon our mutual departure
Working with hands your hands
As you do in times which tighten
Your brow and cheeks and
Breast
Tightness confines motions which in
Loose moments of which there are
several which betray you
which betray only your notions
of what you are
Alone with no witness to such moments
You roll out acorns and chestnuts beneath
An old maple rolling pin
You leach the flours of their acrid browns
Teastaining the water which gathers below
In the tub where I lie for a moment
Elongated until deemed repulsive to
Neighbors or similarly intolerable
To your heart
You bathe me
Still as I lie in these teas and
My flesh is stained but
Who am I any more to be bothered and
Indeed who am I to speak of
This at all unless I am in fact
You and these thoughts
Which continue to occur even
As you dress my naked body
Are not bound by any ability of
Mine to think them and
They in their fleeting abstractions
Are dyed with your focus
Reverberating in confinement
- your confining -
As the muscles in your face confine
The damwater which pulses with breaths and
Heartbeats
Explosions dulled beneath each breath
Knocking at places and parts internal
Parts small enough to ignore at
Least in the moment and
Your tight focus
Your dry flower
Its depth of field now
Vapid and thus infinite
So says the photographer which dimly persists within you
Its inattention -
I am ported, tanned and
Gutted
Up yon hill where we loved each other
Without shame beneath only sunlight
Or moonlight however the accidence of the occasion
Merited -
And dressed like ancient royalty borne likewise
In their solitudes to a pinpoint of light played
By a source deemed to be heavenly
In your own solitude
Eyes leathered over
(did the neighbors break first or was it
your dam?)
And your own eyes tight as with your visage
Entire but
The dam is leaking
Its fissures are showing
I am the vessel of your acorn floured hands
Those which rolled out with an implement of
The same woody flesh which my presence aims
To produce
Which I will restore by your effort
At your silent behest
It is our parting embrace even as our
Accessible distance decreases with
Every handful which blankets me
Though this is a gift to keep me cold
And not to tamp recovery of breath
And heartbeat -
Patting me into place for as
Long as the mountain will hold me
In the same shameless undersky embrace
Which once carried us together -
Print your sign the flesh of your
Sign selfsame which is a sign
None may forge but the security is
Knowing none would want to
In this rest
In this you rest
And continue rolling out flourcakes which
Bitter bite your tongue when the
Dam or rolling pin keeps its last
Utility from you you will know where
To go and it will be my
Parting nod
Merely so
Soundly so, roundly so -
Its incompleteness my last bit of
Honesty
These thoughts belong to neither of us and
So who is it
Who keeps them
And thus kept
Yon mountain
It floods.
Soil is the kiss with which you
Lay upon our mutual departure
Working with hands your hands
As you do in times which tighten
Your brow and cheeks and
Breast
Tightness confines motions which in
Loose moments of which there are
several which betray you
which betray only your notions
of what you are
Alone with no witness to such moments
You roll out acorns and chestnuts beneath
An old maple rolling pin
You leach the flours of their acrid browns
Teastaining the water which gathers below
In the tub where I lie for a moment
Elongated until deemed repulsive to
Neighbors or similarly intolerable
To your heart
You bathe me
Still as I lie in these teas and
My flesh is stained but
Who am I any more to be bothered and
Indeed who am I to speak of
This at all unless I am in fact
You and these thoughts
Which continue to occur even
As you dress my naked body
Are not bound by any ability of
Mine to think them and
They in their fleeting abstractions
Are dyed with your focus
Reverberating in confinement
- your confining -
As the muscles in your face confine
The damwater which pulses with breaths and
Heartbeats
Explosions dulled beneath each breath
Knocking at places and parts internal
Parts small enough to ignore at
Least in the moment and
Your tight focus
Your dry flower
Its depth of field now
Vapid and thus infinite
So says the photographer which dimly persists within you
Its inattention -
I am ported, tanned and
Gutted
Up yon hill where we loved each other
Without shame beneath only sunlight
Or moonlight however the accidence of the occasion
Merited -
And dressed like ancient royalty borne likewise
In their solitudes to a pinpoint of light played
By a source deemed to be heavenly
In your own solitude
Eyes leathered over
(did the neighbors break first or was it
your dam?)
And your own eyes tight as with your visage
Entire but
The dam is leaking
Its fissures are showing
I am the vessel of your acorn floured hands
Those which rolled out with an implement of
The same woody flesh which my presence aims
To produce
Which I will restore by your effort
At your silent behest
It is our parting embrace even as our
Accessible distance decreases with
Every handful which blankets me
Though this is a gift to keep me cold
And not to tamp recovery of breath
And heartbeat -
Patting me into place for as
Long as the mountain will hold me
In the same shameless undersky embrace
Which once carried us together -
Print your sign the flesh of your
Sign selfsame which is a sign
None may forge but the security is
Knowing none would want to
In this rest
In this you rest
And continue rolling out flourcakes which
Bitter bite your tongue when the
Dam or rolling pin keeps its last
Utility from you you will know where
To go and it will be my
Parting nod
Merely so
Soundly so, roundly so -
Its incompleteness my last bit of
Honesty
These thoughts belong to neither of us and
So who is it
Who keeps them
And thus kept
Yon mountain
It floods.
