Idyll pt. 1

On the peninsula white flowers mean death

So I bought a wreath fragrant and soft

And encircled it around my wrist until

For ten cents or less I hung it round

The neck of a stranger who passed me in the dark

 

She fed me beer when I would no longer

Reach for the sweating bottle

Nervous as though for its life and

The only charity in our silent trio

Her hand on me pressing and edging

Me out and drawing me to

Fullness in unmeasured gestures

The goal faltering as persistence did as well

.

Scurrying eyes sated already

With a hunger for only violence

His family sleeps except for his wife

Who rumbles in slumber with a troubled cough

Illness creeps into his mind, a well tended

Garden that does not match the traveler’s 

Stubble on his face like a boar-bristle brush 

Grooming severed tufts and his angles all caught

In a tangle of grooming and its notion commuting

Daily between head and heart and knowing

Little more than such regular transit

Each of the two points a fulcrum without

Any load to force

 

A wearer of chains that bite at and pluck

The hairs on his chest

He asks and asks forwardly and blunt

Aged out of the caginess of abounding replies

He must calm himself but between

Enthusiasm and apathy is a void

 

They grope at his groin making comments

Perhaps they are even impressed as

More intimate partners have been

And have cooed over his form and lines and

Shaped him with such expression but not here

A chasm separates him from himself and cannot

 

Believe it would have been because there was either

Goodness or love beneath that of which that one 

After another they’d in turn spoken

.

Every bank of lights is opportunity 

Screaming in fluorescence and every caricature

Symbolic of the forgetting that makes

Community here possible

  I am a poet

 

We would want to hear him say

And in wanting so we and he are united

In his silence and unbroached chasm

In them he sees only ideas because he sees only ideas

To sit with a person in their divine fullness

Brings him to trembling adoration or

Unbridledness which in any possible

Manifestation he fears

  I am the word

He repeats in the beginning, and then

  With myself I am spake and spoken of

And in companionship winces with every

Repetition hanging as the words declare 

Themselves so in shame

.

What else is true and in that silent chasm

They sit as a woman across from him gestures

A desire to dance and his bones are as concrete

Unmoved in the inertia of exhaustion or anhedonia

The form of his bones remembering a dance

 

Her gestures reminiscent of those memories

His immotivity a stilled fundamental vibration stilled by an 

Inevitable and unvarying entropy which consumes

That dead period from morning to night before

Darkness allows imagination again to speak in

Colorful volumes which make him cry even as he

Lies still and lonely on a bed as hard as his body

When she gestures again and and again saying

  Come please come please now won’t you

 

No practiced guise can fully obscure 

Or deny his immobility for were it so

She would herself take such a task

Of lifting and revealing and peering beneath

But she is exhausted and lays her head on

His shoulder and to both it seems strange

.

Opportunity comes cheaply as much as the

Light stuttering overhead seeking expression

His mouth tastes of soap and tingles

Numb over the caresses of his tongue on

Her neck and even one or two seconds 

Pass before he is reminded that the moans

Are a costume yet something more and

Even alive it is in them and his fingers

Three medials and playing pressure downward

 

Onto her rising curve and cleft between 

Thighs too thin to create the anxious perspiration

Which she longs for him to exude 

 

Every pore an empty thunderhead

And her throat the spout of god and 

Geyser of inarticulate whimper

 

A costume he thinks and so makes himself know 

A costume for it’s not quite that but simply

The being of any given person at all here

And he kisses her as though she were 

To him dearest among so many old lovers

In the thrall of naive and shared infatuation

 

In him she is and he asks and begs and never

Having done it before she is there and 

Drunk on the newness of it all and continues

Hey plying tongue on his curve and cleft and

A hand muffling him and no costume no geyser

Of aspiration and her grip rocks strong and

Worked fully and legs like vines round columns

Of him he who still is like stone unmoving

Each limb a pillar and of those pillars

She his roof and dovetailed at the hip

.