down the nail-gnawed thread-bare staircase to the street.
where am i going which way do i turn?
to the end of the road,
to the lime streaked light smeared sun stained sky.
to the white steamy clouds that clump and curl space.
i lean into green quilted cushions
and let you draw me out like a thorn,
leeching all my bodies bad chemistry through your tounge.
the silence pouring in the open window
is composed into notes,
our fingers are soundless instruments
our eyes hum hymns of gibberish.
night coils up the slack behind the day going down,
so soon we are under the moon just like everything else.
removing our shoes we are icecubes at the melting moment
and soaking in the course tweed sheets
i open your mouth with mine.
