12 Degree High

Caught a day off in passing and decided, after
hours mulling over jaw lines, to present myself
to the coldest day in spring.

Teeth are set tight against the wind, and the heart
opens to the perilous optimism of seasonal leaves.
The chill follows me to the cafe, and dips into my coffee,
as I feel paper voices lock in step with fingers thumbing the story.

These are my thoughts. Slipping within your perfectly scored creation.
Bouncing sing-along style to the downbeat of the novel.
I could write a book alongside yours. Nothing cultivated.
Thighs opening and closing like swallowtails. Hot flesh dipping into orgasm.
Buttons to be fastened, hair neatly braided as-if
lovelessness mattered.

I'm blocking the entrance to the doorway, up-turning a collar
and wondering about spring's inability to shake off the cold.

March 1st

There is a picture of you running down
steps to catch the heaving city bus;
your favourite leather boots keeling over
cement ripples running
the downgrade
like it was layers in
sandstone;
the crestfallen ages
of clams and glass.

Cavorting over the curb
in giant strides,
your pace breaks
and the engine sighs;
your red hat bobs
alongside the big transit windows.

Early test results

Lay on the kitchen floor.
Mash potatoes, cook onions,
until the salt in the mouth assuages
into anger (gives you the heads);
let symptoms shuffle 'round
disembodied, like an anti-diagnosis.

The hands of well-bred professionals
will not stop your anatomy
from bleeding obscenely.

Sick as a dog,
copulating with double entendres,
fighting with lovers that are bemused
by madcap schemes for sex
that can manage cures for
commonplace bodies.