i have one indian blanket
covering my window here,
and the sun seeps through
anointing me bluely.
I wake up,
bathe in the color;
and fall back asleep.

through these thick
mornings and into the
moon-horned night,
i’ve been pulling some
books off my shelf:

O’hara, the conch-
shell spiral of linguistic
amours; precise and
natural;

Brautigan, expansive,
a stratosphere in love;

Nin, whose words
i subtly shade with kisses
on the neck softly given;

Woolf, recalled in
huskily breathed conversations
in tents, under covers;

this mesh of words
separates us;
can ensnare.
but:

raise your arms!
and the orchestra of
your action snaps
to attention;

express that
desire.
untangle.
wiggle free.
someone’s waiting!

you find, and in this finding,
see your own body inverse;
welcome this confluence,

and see as they lustily laugh
passing you through kitchens,
sidewalks, hillsides,
smoking sections and diners

but move your own fingers.
don’t forget!
& melt like snowmen do
when the morning blooms.

push your teeth,
through the words that
excite your blood;
hear those voices talk,
be interested in your own talking,

in this way,
a kiss on the neck.
a sleeping-bag conversation.
a moment’s hesitation.
before returning home.