An electric clap, and the sky shuts
down. And pours. My desires, like yours,
are I expect rather simple. Orality, say.
The windows are sheeted, the streets
glazed with water. I do not know
my desires by sight or name, suspect
licking and swallowing and tasting
are involved. We all want
to be loved – they say. Everything
is there for the eating, under the clouds.
Can you feel the muscle hardening?
Is it there? Is it tasty, or visually
satisfying, or moist? Where does it go
afterwards? When someone shuts off
the lights. Clap clap. If this has
a history, it's news to me, but there
are more things I don't know than
things I do. They preened themselves,
evidently, on their visual literacy. Does
it move independently of the joint?
Pretty ballerinas at the barre. At
the bar. I stretched, pirouetted,
and forced my feet into numbered
positions for about three weeks,
then pulled a muscle. Like facets
of a crystal. They twirl and dip
and swoon. Alone, the slim body
curves as with pain, or hunger,
or aspiration. Reach for the stars.
Where did I put my shoes?