what you did not see nor mention

i’m reaching for the soft skin of very small hands
its another blunt cut
one for my tender resistance
another for your bangs
i should have responded faster
now i keep seeing film stills
you sitting on my lap
i think you like laps
i think you like curling up mid stretched
i’m still attracting hero names
souls deep and rich
scarred faces of the rough side of
beautiful faces hiding starvation and desire
you are small in this dream
my reaction is insistent and warming
as all blood flow is warm until it rushes away from extremities
leaving a trail of now chilled bone
a trail of questions that only the feeling live ones can read
like paw print tattoos
a trail to track
your rosettes full and camouflaged against milky skin
your tiny hands wrapped around full bellies of arm
fat like hams
hard as trees
your calves peek hello
underneath sheets of silk and linen
a formula you wear well
in bright reds and reflective blacks
somewhere in your crown swims lilies
upon which the lotus is borne
everyday another is raised
smooth as teeth
grazing salt soaked skin
at the basin of hope
at the nape of your neck
one small hand becomes two
holding my giant abused extension
long lean strides expose fear inside confidence
i know me
slumber has revealed you
none more strange nor more welcome
nice meeting you
take residence here on my lap
i must return again and again to the place that holds me
taunt like paint soaked rope
taunt like unfinished canvass
too long to dry
or just enough time
more water is required for such delicate orchids
little earth and much mountain air
slumber allows elements to bend
as meditation allows elements to breathe
i asked another
what are women like
the response came in more questions
statements that proved doubt for truth
its in gradients she said
complex and unyeilding highs to lows
the 4 kinds
3 plus those with a fire inside
a balance for underground currents
pools of newly reviewed love stories
so many faces
so many exemptions for new improved anthologies
i still glance to the west
i want that golden moment alive in the sun
alone on the rocky reality of a divine cold beach
langston martine es el dorado
alone with the lights blinking out
i will let the points of these gems dig into my bare soles
reminding me of the days i would lie still
face to cool pillow
painting visions on new receptors
quick speech to tease out burnt orange hair
a sliding scale to bring those cooler temperatures
to a more resounding red
born of sword
born of cup

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