Crucified, the bread of your hip against my tongue tastes like living.
I’ve worn your style in the jaw of my suit and assault myself for you.

So. We know nature doesn’t love us in the ways we know love.

We take the romantic angle. We, the silence of boats

Buoyed between perfume and how we float on,
alphabets almost in order today.

The most erotic thing is to take off. The fall is its own scene.

As any day, you’re on the verge of everything except.
I press my ear to the plunge
where your ribs and breastbone listen
to the cosmos, gushing
heart valves and your place on the Internet.

I give over to your social intercourse, kissing you through
the power of your updates.

Kiss me times Time.
I never curse the site of your name. Because
the thing about language is us, and you can say anything simply …
Language is made of words.

Many of us end. Which is profundity too.

Death is more than the omission of life.
Time is of the presence. We are of past lives and present tenses.

The subtext is in.
Poetry unglues the brain.

Leave the tocsin and the pen alone. Away with me into you.

The piano startles our chain of boats,
the highway outside devolves into trees, and
neighbouring driveways

Induce hot candy wine. We never need to drink alone.

Women are also made of blood
and pass through us, reading aloud the song of our talk,
we women and
everything about gods unacknowledged,
riding the waves as so much witchcraft.

We are the end results of our names.
We, the always becoming, heard aloud.
As if the entire universe requested us by name.

We are, in reality, emissions of universal crowd sourcing. For now,
Your face is my font,
and I base my future on daily readings. I read you in Braille.
Love is the guide through space, which is you too. I paddle on.