20 - Diffuse

I scrub my body clean with your body.

Come into my bed, get every last bit of me out.

I’ll become pure, I’ll slip backward

through pain into a million sterile holes

in the surface of the dark.

So I court your fish-moist skin’s

friction to rub me numb,

your urging weight to press me flat.

You can do as you like, these

are my evacuee procedures.

I’m laid bare for the journey as you

scuff my senses into the vagueness,

the pristine of fog. Enough, and I

mist out, through the mute scream

of a million open pores, a claustrophobic

soul sprayed particulate into the remote

nowhere of space. Molecule-safe.

I leave the place immaculate.

I scrub my body clean with your

attendant hands unknowing

I am gone into the night,

clean night.

2 - Fact

Color is the scaffolding

Remains when feeling rots off bones of the seen.

No, Aesthete, the line is not bare — azimuth, arc of peregrine faith, it is still fraught with nautic thrusts

Impelled to plot the promise of frontier, even faint.

But a stilled heart admits the nudity of hues.

Sculpted in bas-relief, palette oils mime the depth of things

No longer rounded out, ballooned like glass filled with desire’s breath.

When does blue cease to be a mood?

When does green slither backwards in its unbirth to stasis?

Find yourself looking to pigments as facts, and then you will know.

For mine, I saw the amber dappling of shine, vestiges pocked in the face of thought,

And trusted this fossil-memory of riches, preserved for a dormant one.