The brain is a splendid instrument
with a lilac tail that winds around
a kale clock, stopping in places to say
your proper name and drip ancestor
fury. Come a little bit closer
and help me look for the stash
of boxtops in the kitchen drawer.
It’s been so long since I saved
anything at all.
Coming home to you, the hearty
love which glows and shoots
this intensity, this fetch, which
blossoms on plumb wine. Your
proper name won’t matter, only
your desire to be eaten, your
crisp yet soft texture, the light
that stretches from one part
of you to the other—the JOY of you—
where I’ve craved salt and fat.
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