Monday, March 31, 2003
Poem for April, No Fooling
thirty-second flavor over Tokyo
the taste of your taste
is a sideways glance,
a pitch long into nuance,
a bit of salt and sugar,
lemon and sweat.
and the touch of that taste
is like the smooth slime
of an oyster
or the sweet skin
of a peeled concord grape —
the green under the purple,
the slick under the smooth.
burrowing in, I find
your center has become hard,
an uncooked pea
rolling gently
beneath a warm fruit roll-up,
bobbing like a float in the pond
where waves come
from breath on water,
from sounds rasping in air,
from exaltations reaching up from sheets
wet with communion
all cries breaking through the green vault
to the blue sky and on
to the heavens where God
hears its name
spoken again and again
with breathless love
and the resonance
of bare wooden floors.
afterwards, we bask
in a secular snack
of ice cream
and wet pink kisses.
echos, movements still circle below...
swirl, fudge swirl,
smacking of lips.
Posted by Prospero on 03/31/03 at 11:27 PM
Comments:
Next entry: Sperm Got Noses?
Previous entry: How 'Bout Them Icecubes?