his language hungry with nonchalant
fingers of a man, not quite open.
stumble along ribs, strum the flesh.
not a god but an invention,
polished and displayed in gold
lighting. something continuing to be
had, and therefore, never clean.
with the willow scent
of baby oil sweat. a man's moon,
out of place on the shelf day,

belittles apollo - burst from zeus,
mercurial god of speed and immediate
knowledge. not a young eyeful.
the mover of words, hands stretched out
to all fingers. this is the god bridge
arching back between earth and olympus.
prince and mountain. out of a
rilke-esque grip. not pinned
inside the cold, cupid bust.

10/14/2008

Posted on 10/15/2008
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