Testimony to Sense

I.
The air adorned with
notes of milk. Other 
paths criss-cross like 
Miami highways for 
feet. You love how I 
draw a pomegranate. 
You love the shot of 
lemon and the drawl 
of it all along a lip. I 
have wanted this only 
to not handle. I have 
run from it with haste 
only to need it scratching 
at my scalp. I am ruffled 
by  the waves, their bars 
bending like a hearing 
aid to my ear. My eyes 
caught in the black of 
an ocean. Single point 
above. Your scent caught 
in stains of grains of sand 
lining my pockets like 
sutures or two dollar coins.  
The pupil unfurled like 
a peony. Art about art; 
art about feeling like you’re 
stealing something public.  
Sorry, not public, but 
universally known. Or 
universally desired. Meant 
to be felt by the concrete, 
the mulch. The wheel 
invented, then inverted. 
The door always existing. 
The star. The fruit, 
unbelieved by molded 
fresh rings of tipping 
tongues.

II.
A record store full of 
the Beggar’s Opera. 
Stems of flowers. 
Grooves on a disc. 
Mount Rushmore but 
without any men and it’s 
all a sand castle. Some 
chevroned moments  
beckon with smell, 
others with chime, 
though many come 
free of sense and rife 
with peeling back. The 
moon will always 
cross its legs
so polite for us. 
Denial. The skin between 
my fingers is aching.  
We stand in the middle 
of the sun’s thighs and 
tease for long enough 
that they begin 
to resemble 
a venus fly trap.

III. 
Four hours is slow. 
An invasive species. 
Car in metaphorical 
park. Southerness. 
Grief and desire 
growing like weeds 
without fetter. Circus 
freaks throwing 
themselves at someone 
who just barely planted 
their feet. I’m tempted 
to make a list of what 
felt good. They can all 
guess. I like that 
about myself. What 
kind of  debate is this, 
where the pennies wet 
themselves like dogs 
just learning how to 
clean. I wanted to say 
there are worse things 
than this kind of loss. 
Ink can. Ink well. Girls 
in shorts and sticks. 
A list of the worst white 
men that’s easy to 
make.  Baldness. Bales 
of needles, facing back. 
Display of the wound, 
so close to the heel. 

IV.
Caliban, of course. 
The unities never 
unionized. There we 
go. Brevity of dreams 
& the exact moment I 
noticed your pinky 
touch my left ear. Real 
life. A new king.  A never 
before felt awkwardness 
of queer entanglement. 
Noticing something 
is yellow in the light 
of day: that building 
we danced in. Both 
Tuscon and Tuscony.  
Music I love to refuse 
to love. A human voice 
rising like heat at 
boardwalk. Settle souls 
and drop like a sanded 
stone in my gut. 
Scoundrel. Silk, how it 
furls, unfurls, still 
slipping off, slippage 
standing, still.