I’ve found a way into evening again. Despite attempts towards
forgetting,
what I had considered important this morning. Here: my skin is
white &
soft, in that deep soft way. Deep soft tasting salty. Chemical. Salt is
chemical.
To lick sweat from under my breasts. To dream-fuck a wizard at a
beach motel.
Dream-fuck a stranger in a shoelace factory. You are a man I know, thank god,
but the corridors & stairwells of this building echo a light that pulls
your face
into shadow and greens your skin. Your skin is also politically white,
though more the color of very milky tea. I want to lick the smooth
line
along your hip to your armpit. In spite of love & all the forgetting I
attempt.
I forget anonymity. I’ve forgotten exploration. You are a man I have
known.
Under these lights, you are old. Under these lights, I am fat. Under
these lights, under our bank accounts & the car we share & the room
& bed
and I mean, but please, these are the lights we are under. And I
mean,
but please, don’t waste a paper lantern on me. And I mean, but
come on, do you remember the dog noise of your breathing into
me?
Into my deep soft? Sex used to surprise me. Surprise me.
