Plum Pit Speechless
ah, look at you.
you’re a plum pit to me,
a cratered seed of stability
amidst rotting flesh,
the nectar of bee stings
rolling off you
like water.
a fascinating crochet
of taj mahal-like masteries,
an inquiry
I’m dying to answer.
I own innumerable textbooks,
but they teach me nothing about you.
you’re a bachata of blush,
a shiver in the dog days of summer.
I want nothing but your words,
your kindest utterance…
your skull shaped like a birdbath,
cupped to hold secrets.
the disjointed Me,
peering through your windows,
aching to scratch your soul,
to suck the venom
out of your snakebite.
your identity is in a wormhole somewhere,
locked in the paradoxes
of outer space.
which planet may I
retrieve it on?
whisperings of your desires,
I can only hear shreds of
your heart,
mere beats in the scheme of
a rock-concert-slashout.
grimly hunched gravity
of the spine,
come to me
and tell me everything.
for once in documented
postmodernist history,
you’ve rendered a poet
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completely speechless.