If you sit still long enough like a tree or a car with the battery stolen
a certain languid truth begins to gather like weed and moss:
while I love the fucking and the sweet bruised plumb of wanting
there is now a low desire vibrating in the blood
wanting the after-moments as much as the during.
I wait for my mouth to forget your body—our blue language
of pitiful moan and flesh blind drowning to peak and fade—
so we can kiss and suck and tongue the air into the why and why not
of our again and again, our mysterious and inevitable reaching
like the extending horizon made of an earth and sky
we know never really touch though everyday they do.
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