Yesterday myself and other fallen stars
approached a cold night with golden throats.
So many heartbeats
that occupied the tundra tentacles of night.
In the midst of stories made of hands
and gray eyes that film like wornout scotch tape.
I am in the middle of this October
and in this apart-mented planet laughs
are slanted in wine
and galaxies of smoke serpents
dance spirals above our silk woven smiles.
Eyes and hands, voices and
shapes for bodies radiation flirts through;
with the warmest approach
tenderly addressed homelessly as far as intention propels.
5 like a hand, each finger a lover,
a glove fits like a night on a day; a week in a heart.
We bid apart as a fist opens,
after swallowing suns into moons
and drifts of December whisper
voluminous previsions among the eyelids
of cold celestial sidewalks.
A burned image in oil protrudes in mind,
holds me there as warm and lonely
as in the arms of a new prostitute.
I surrender submission in exchange
for domain and all its friends.
I stand and fold the moment into my long tired arms,
like years that extend from the shoulders
and end with branch-like boney fingers
that call in stretched creases,
the touch of a sweet banquet of flesh.
5 origins in a carousel at light speed;
the spinning metal whirs
into a long note sung,
proclaimed by our lungs
and all of its deaths.
