late evening
spent spinning
webs of words with harp strings
i consider my delicate fingers holding the glass
i touch you through the ether
we come at the same time
to hear
Kerouac say he
thought poetry
was jazz
proclamations
for me it is
breathing
humming
fucking
Whitman’s
barbaric yawp
is my seductive moan
i bleed no less into my ink
Emily had her bees
i have resorted to prolific rhinoceros
thought gestation e e cummings
left me wet
and
trembling
deliciously satisfied
i put your words
into my mouth
and spread their melt over my tongue
eat with me
drink the wine
i want to remember the meal we shared
the night you told
me
what the words
are to you
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