12/6/2016

shall I call your bluff? lie down
under your stars, your moon?
let your lips run the ladder
of my vertebrae? your chin rest
in the orbit of my clavicle?
such a tender spot, so close to
the neck. and the neck, ah well
the neck speaks for itself.
at this age we are such
storied stories, such novels of being.
this is just a page or paragraph
the sweet spot the book has
opened to cause you to look up
and gaze out the window.
do you wonder now what it would
be to stop reading, to follow
the path of your breathe and
pointy stars into dusk under the
moon-glyphed meadows
where it is too dark to parse
letters and all that is left for you
to do is feel?