When the ideas about you come out,
they intervene like a dog that doesn’t know which bowl to eat from, considering
the options. Perhaps there are none. Perhaps all the animals can’t tell which
valley to fall through, being watched by a hunter hidden between oaks, pines,
or aspens so sparse and albino. They know there is the point of being hunted
because that just means being alive, but one can only be sought after for so long.
When I spell out your name so
anyone listening can write it down correctly, I see brown hair the length of
years spent in some other life that I receive visions of hints from. The dogs
still bark at night over your beauty when I am in a bed with you. Photographs taken by all the people I don’t know and will never meet convince
me of the crispness in your body. I heard a drive-by hitman make his mark in
the world while I considered the first night I will finally know your body.
When the intimacy I want finally
sets in, there will be centuries of love to consider. Alexander is in a convulsion
of epilepsy over a woman that told him she wouldn’t feel the fall of his sheets
on her body. There is nothing to consider now and I can’t feel the fits in my
drunken cells left out in the sun to dry among an Arizona heat that reminds me
of your tongue filling up my mouth.
