Solid Air
Woman of enameled distances, of lunar assembly lines,
of elastic silence, woman of the orchestral diaphragm
and disposable comma,
woman of adult fire, of the acoustic hairbrush, woman of
hourly days and cubic desire,
woman of possible women,
I want to oil at once the gear that propels your caress,
to upholster the bones of the dead if it helps you to think
in duplicate,
to guess from the length of you glance your secret
handkerchief, your independent dinette, and
hung-over library;
I want, without courthouses or anesthesia, to sort out the
riveted luncheons that famine constructs,
to find on the map your molecular minute,
your mahogany eyelashes, the screw that tightens in
your nostalgia.
I speak to you now with the voice of martyred bees,
hoping to drown out my echoing tricycle,
my luminous pencils of ambition, my afternoon laced
with preservatives.
From a boudoir ruled by arthritic mirrors,
in prosthetic darkness, through a collision of portable
neighborhoods
to startled heights placed on pedestals,
I escort a severe checkerboard, a professional bandage,
and propose a toast of ink to your athletic ribcage and
mood.
