Inbred new places stop out the sides of what I touch.
Sky is no father, Luke mimes. My hand on his nipple,
places his allmist mouth on my raw palm. Cymbals luff.
Lystic, look at these legs: soilless flesh yet unnatural
on end; goosebump red, pink, felt dragged in. Skin white
windowed in paddles of saturn-velvet: uncanny, stem liquid
chants. Kayak wakes, patches of tongue serrated mallow.
Cedrus, myrcene. No one stands outside.
We can’t hang out in the fingerflecks anymore.
You’ve nooned your sigh, gave up the black gate of Animal.
Now that’s what I call liberty: blow me, then call in Evening.
In nudeless scrawl. My lids trickle each crownkiss
destined for salt to column their calm belt of whisper.
Humility between this fingernail’s cracked tulips. After today,
Luke can look crazy in the light thinking of his blood
not color nor cane nor loud turns of marble in strangled milk.
I look at his Eyes. Blinks caught in rhythmic pillars’ pestilent dew.
I look at his rising flavors and the green flames of an Ariel
in ghostlike symmetry with the residue of Saturday; alone in roads.
