.....
.......
About concerns:
...................six feet..............by inch.
Say I'm growing human (I'm sorry)
to use parallel, slice, particular handling--the idea of a light year in the roundabout.
No mechanism for dance at large (or south smiling peyote saints).
You would gladly be drinking, perhaps
..............................fondling my tits; an open mouth to tap juice out of blunt areolae.
Delete from me what this ocher face sees: a stretched
..................puzzle out of the nearest settlement. In November,
find its components wedged between your body
and whippoorwill's blood wings--
saucer-stomached, ginger cake with night
arranged to drink-in the coiled circles of my belly. Then your peace pipe smiles
long again, finds this inhalant most flesh soothing.
Let's not talk
...............in errors, or waft, or dogs--all howling gluttonies with presence,
howling scrape from hambones and broken shins
I have to talk now, or walk with the saints again,
Mohawk, lily-speak, knees clasp final breath, arrangements
with you--the other side leans out; runs leathern with water.
It's not spirituality, I'm afraid, that tugs them to my knees,
maybe the way maypole's will--from stiff phallic images of your torn
dress threads--form intricate bone carvings, azure gleam of turquoise beads.
The way you listen to barriers and hide in the longhouse with your moccasins
.........................torn off,
extended to drive leather-lipped nooses under my toes.
I know you're not as pure as my last confession--let's be what wind never blows,
or, at most, the faint automatic rustles of worsening conditions.