If padded hammers striking

copper wires comprise desire

I find the tune grown thin. That

theme has faded into evening

air, deformed by metaphor.

The body is immortal

in the moment only, not

arpeggios. Parsed feelings

are dumb puppet shows. Better

to drown oneself in touch

than float, still sighing, on green

garden pools, rehearsing more

and endlessly one’s old

continuos. Better to

glide through thighs and breasts, plucking

chance strings or being plucked by them.

That melody resounds. So now

I’ll shut the keyboard up and

go reside beneath the sign

of tousled limbs and hair. And

in that sumptuous silence

kiss; be kissed.