L'eau Incubus

I tell you

that you might not believe

what happens

when it is quiet

and I have only your voice.

You tremble

in the great divide,

whisper in ear

that now your hand is mine,

and not to use words but show you light

to part the fog between us in the dark.

So I place your land on arches,

giving pulse to palm

until the visions flow.

Now know

my desire to graze

this lacquered spirit

to your sturdy ship,

buoy weighed on supple shore,

ancient ladder combed to tracing spires

in the sky, harbor, here

these jaded isles,

lips, sirens everywhere-

old newnesses from every side,

wet limerance guiding on

exponential moistness, wind,

salt thumb

inside of cheek and teeth,

I in the air,

and you beneath the breaking waves;

gasping three precious molecules

-I ease your clenching jaws apart-

expel your pleural swell from stream,

force you looseworn things that breathe

til you liven and lungs awake in madness

to receive what once coursed vigorous past my coronaries.

You, I invite,

to extract the divine

and draw upon the host of prophesies

dissolved between my manifold flesh inside.

Four soft layers and a skull beneath

you already surge amid neurites,

Soluble,

synaptic ghost; I lay no claim, but follow

to your throat with aim to nest

in your throbbing jugular.

Soon, in sight of our syncytial wake

this sessile form relieves its clinging state

and tides to agony,

ecstatic glee-ic ache;

propelled by thrust

and lull of lunar sway

under curtain, ballast, sea and kale

we dive-

We, so alive, cannot live

when both our heads are under water.

And I, in arms, fall prey to eternity

in the timeless stasis,

the pulse has halted without warning

and we love the death until the morning

caesura builds the body

from the flotsam grains again.

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