Thursday, December 15, 2011

POEM: On The Edge of A Preposition

Your scent rises like that of
laundry, stingy as thermometer-mercury, through
miles of
arterial roadways, through
stringy muscles, through
a fibrous jungle through
branches of
bone, wrapped in
a web, around
lumps of
flesh, around
growths, around
striated meat, around
a skeletal frame, spiraling upward through
the skull, through
the scalp, through
the spot that was once the fontanelle, before
your bones knitted together, when you were a baby, before
speech, before
the genes lovingly molded by
the hands of evolution that enable walking kicked in, before
you knew what words were, toward
the centrifugal identity of your soul, on
your deathbed perhaps, toward
the centrifugal Milky Way, with
its gawky spiral arms flaling hapless as a drowning man, beneath
the very nose of
God, Who returns all motion with
Countermotion & Like lips, like the shape & pursing of
lips, proffers
a kiss.

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