Monday, May 24, 2010

though my body has been canvased
by other men since you've gone
your traces still linger in the folds
and quiet spaces
where only souls venture in the silent
dawn of a sunday morning

meticulously erased
like rauschenberg to a dekooning
you've been framed and labeled
placed on a pedestal;
you no longer dilate seamlessly into the horizon.

stained in memory and in sheets
with marksman acuity
you linger in the passings
of every other old spiced man

and then of course
there was that night that i unwittingly
clung to his brazen chest
only to draw the surrogate aroma
deep into my diaphragm,
eyelids like lead of Serra,
respiring recycled reminiscence
on a curfew
hoping construct would give way to calling

but the body cannot lie like lips
spread like lies
nor quip like minds

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