Frank O’Hara in thick brown socks

you say the mind is an idea

             the body has of itself


undecided between popping & not

                          in my sparkling water

& I don’t mind

                          the way you

cling to the bottom of my glass

that never-ending hole becoming something

             more like ice in my hand

& even tho the way I look condenses

             your skull when you hold me

over your bony shoulder I’ve seen the drip drop of dew

             dangling from a fragile black cohosh shrub

                          its flowers heavy

                          w/ the insistence of your disease

grown in the shape

                                       of arcane sigils

             their roots held

             somewhere just out of reach

like the





are words

or minty candies in my mouth

there are a few things I’ll never know about

the body because I am one you know

how it’s impossible to see your own eyeball

                          a decoration behind which one hides & plays

                          adorning lingerie or a leather dog collar

a red leash w/ a gold chain & a red bow

             tightens around your neck

             as we swivel back & forth into the future

history a revolving door that feeds upon itself

                          & our sweat

             & so half-eaten & half-dressed

                          in the blue moonlight thru the window

                          we know to whom we belong

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