minding my beeswax . .
late, candles . . waiting for a storm
spaced & weary
hollowness ringing buzzing beating in my ears
bones heavy with the nights gravity
thumb rubbing the borders of this book
leather smooth & limitless
minding the hollow
listening to the still . .
when suddenly the leather becomes
there is that thread, that bridge of sureness & I can not escape the tumble
my hand along your bended leg
I can't stop this electric pantomime and as my eyes close against the unexpected wet missing
I am feeling you ;
along the trapezius line, across the distance & pulsing quadrants
slowly finding my way
i have become lost here before : in the tracing of fibers & skin
i will not be lost, will not be lost
leather leads to paper ripe & richly worded
falling . . .
minding . . .
scars that sing to me of a city in snow, brisk & deep
sparks & tingles of the ever
moonlight turning everything cashmere blue
but i will keep you warm
trailing the chant
down your arm across muscles, tendons . . crystal bones and
skin that melts me thru to crimson creeks
there - a birth-mark that resembles either a newly discovered star or
a super nova
minding . .
I can feel you
hands grasp, hold, pinch & stroke
and it is
and i will never be hollow . . .