A Letter

I have met the shrill of cheap gold 

For fifteen days, prying its 

Old mouth open to find the jet of your

Sigh. It animates the scarf of

Spider webs and dead moth beads that

Hug it like a womb. My nails drag

The bottom of a firm lake. I want my

Nerves to nurse paper. 

I am waiting. Minute has not

Marched at my hip since the Sunday
Light slid along your upper lip, brow,

Eyes. The air is a bog of paste, each frame

Plodding through. Such

Extravagant discipline the minute has,

Manacling its hastened pace. 

I am waiting, savoring my

Red, sticky rock, gooey bit of Mars,

That planet shivering below

My meek meadow of chest hair. 

I house a great weapon there. You

Yourself hold a beautiful lethality, your

Astral tail lingering like a lance.

You come and you go as a

Crystalline meteorite, a battering ram.

Give it four months, maybe three, and

You collide with your allocated crater

Again. The every day truncated, my

Heart shimmered with the wholeness

You provide. 

I am waiting. Barren bowl, the glitter

Back in orbit – I sent you six. 

I could not stand the cave you gave

To me. I cannot stand the love that

Sears in that holy pit like salt.

You are a bicycle, blue

And bubbled, the breath in my aunt's

Guest bed.

The human has not two ears. There is

An additional one that sprouts above

The left nipple. An empty dish, waiting

For your stellar echo, bouncing back

To me in the sealed shield of a letter. 




© 2015 BENJAMIN SMITH