meteor shower

I asked you to show me your body, and you did
with a crooked grin on your face, your
teeth–cleaned every six months, and there, too, is
your mother–giggling and pushing down on me,
speaking to me:
“oh, when you do that”,
pulling my hands to you to create callus.

A leaking emptiness raising inside of the dust
and our eyes catch each other, briefly, and then
disconnect, music or chaos or both.

This is a memory, not reality–that
reality is nothing more then your bent body
on my shoulder, your arm up below my neck
as if with my comfort you must choke me;
your legs grab mine and hold them–
forceps in silence, a rough country of skin
and sheet and outside there is a meteor shower
echoing off of the window
plink plink plink.
The punctuation of your sleeping breath
between each falling star,
a bent, dreamless spoon wrapped up in
sheets and unnamed fear.

I close my eyes
I float down this moment
to keep this moment
to become this moment
to fill it with oxygen
your breath hot on my neck
hearing the world outside of us
plink plink plink.

Kevin Crispin
What do you think is up to my right in the picture? A cob web? Probably a cob web. Or maybe it's my Beatles records on top of my air conditioner. It's certainly not fresh, new wainscoting.

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