i want to read

moon,

I want to read

your lips—

or better still,

inhale the bouquet

of your breath beneath

my hair, your air,

your vibrato,

your rain

decanted  

the length of my

Eustachian tube.

Gather there.

Flow there, tidal,

And I’ll tack into you

 wheel

larboard/starboard

and my skull

will seal your wind

in a globe

of snow.

And if,

later,

your breath

draws

to words and

 words could

impress bone—

or better still

  if marrow were a wick

  and each

breathed letter

a drop like

spermaceti,

please,

pause your jaw

and angle it,

ear to my surplice

eye.  Can you sense

my tension? My awe

 and oh, my bitter end

  

before condensing?

And then, the first pure

 drop rendered,

Falling?

  Let me cask you

 in flesh dipped

  in celadon,

 

a Genesis clay

 on my flat spade.

I’ll cradle

and rake you.

Glaze and bake

and age you

in the strait

of fluent glaze

as it pervades

then tempers

  until we’re twined,

slaked in a kiln

 of blue breath,

your lips the triple point

of our intersection:

an unction

of mud and blood

and air

that, when decanted

is… but you’ll know.

It is.  It simply is.