appelquist
Bluelighter
poetry
is like sex, to me. and
conversely,
sex
should be like poetry.
hands that have caressed the same skin
a thousand times already should still
discover sharpening ravines, hills that
never end their rolling. one sad
celibate
celebrates the art in the wind that blows
off lovers' lips; the gentle accost of mouths
which would drive a woman's ribcage into shudders,
which would send a man's hands into soft
unknown
sweat places. one sad celibate has never
found sex that moved as well as a finely tuned
coreography of syllables, never found a
fuck
that would force laughter through her throat
with the again revelation, as do words that sit
patient as the sky for as long as it could
ever take to turn the previous page.
i have made love to this poem,
shown it all of my affection.
is like sex, to me. and
conversely,
sex
should be like poetry.
hands that have caressed the same skin
a thousand times already should still
discover sharpening ravines, hills that
never end their rolling. one sad
celibate
celebrates the art in the wind that blows
off lovers' lips; the gentle accost of mouths
which would drive a woman's ribcage into shudders,
which would send a man's hands into soft
unknown
sweat places. one sad celibate has never
found sex that moved as well as a finely tuned
coreography of syllables, never found a
fuck
that would force laughter through her throat
with the again revelation, as do words that sit
patient as the sky for as long as it could
ever take to turn the previous page.
i have made love to this poem,
shown it all of my affection.
