Ecclesiastic lovemaking
this morning
I think of basilicas
& thyme in other eras

thoughts
thalassic

I’m thirsty for
balconies, dawns, anything
that

churches
the unimaginable.

*

Some nights I’m handsome
most nights I’m         frantic

                          at night I watch the foxes
                          from my window
                          rummaging through the garbage bins
                          at the back of the building complex
                          every night they come
                          famished for love
                          so aloud
                          I watch and I am not myself—

in the mornings I write.

*

I know love
only when I write.
I get lost in my apartment
won’t worry about the world
I forget life

then the bomb drops then the
storm comes love arrives on
tanks

one dawn
with your gaze galvanic

limerence factory you
blitzkrieging flower you
erotic shrapnel

pervading my skin from
everywhere
welcome, grenade

I love lost wars.

*

Your body is a fresco
of the night

                                                            my body is the body of a poet
                                                            it tastes of bitter and elitist

I can make you a woman*
I can command sadness

                                                            I am a writer, I know how to
                                                            summon your love, I do

*

When you drop
into my field of vision
choicest
making your
appearance

                                                            the choreographer of my thought
                                                            riots

frantic the magic
fountains of Montjuïc erupt LSD
trips eating the moon chopped &
squeezed in your palm like
a canary

all the tired poem crafters of the world
massacred, stygian red splattered a
Pollockesque bloodbath, bliss

& I am spelled

by your legs that turn teetotum-like
and words leaving bodies planetary

revolving

*

Time is nothing, Henry repeats to Clare and
time is nothing, I repeat to you and
to me, mostly, to believe it; are
we story, breathes a you in my

bed in my
ear

like an acrostic

*

Metafictionally,
I marry you the 3^rd day I see you
and the 4^th, on a Joan Miró

now, you sitting there stirring hurricanes in a cup
and I standing here with the sun staining my glasses

caricatured
by time

*

Pushing poems
online doesn’t matter
nor all else;

I dream of Saadi
breathing, dance to Ottoman &
Smyrnean songs on YouTube, as I
return a late ladybug                   present
to the night ferocious looping out my
window I am think
ing of you fall
ing into the camera               wonderment

of you,
a bite
to sink my teeth deep into
the
sun I speak
of things

that die, I
go
where love
calls like a blind photographer like
smoke evicted from the mouth like
the shadow of a plane
t.

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*particularly in this verse, if not everywhere, you refers to poetry. I don’t believe anyone can make someone else a woman or a man, whatever that means.

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