Oh, I’ll never love her again.
I mean I’ll certainly love her,
but I won’t LOVE her.
Not like I did with the cool air
blowing in through the window
onto the strained meow of her
old gray and black tabby cat
sprawled across the small kitchen table
in that sixth floor apartment in Brooklyn.
I’ll never know Spring like that again.
It won’t come for me again,
breaking the sunrise over the M train
traversing the Williamsburg Bridge.
These are the molecules of the city,
hormones of the corpus,
a man’s firm body atop the softness of
where the land and ocean gather,
and memories are left to their stillness.
I need to know that you’re logical
That you could stop me from bleeding
if we were up in the mountains
and I ripped my leg off
I also need to know that you’re crazy
That you would masturbate me in the
middle of the night
while I was sleeping
In the matrix of these two traits
is the summation of the perfect woman
(for me at least)
As I sat looking out over the dreary fields of fog
I remembered the pores of skin on your legs
they laid out with the occasional reddish brown freckle
There was something incredibly normal about this skin
Was it just that I was used to it?
Was it of common genetics, duplicated over and over?
Or maybe was it rare and specific, did it hail from a
certain village in Ireland or Sweden somewhere or
maybe it was even France, moving amongst the
The timid moments of self-doubt I have felt on those legs
and then lay with them as conquering heroines
In a way it was like looking at your legs was like
looking across a field in ancient Europe
an amalgamation somewhere
a gathering for mine eyes to look upon them
To remember them in low light in bedrooms
as the fields of fog advance on wayward hearts
out in Briscoe County, Texas and the field larks sing