strangers...

the pores of flannel, of your warm flesh
smell like kerosene,
and you like a man who has places to go
and is easily set on fire…

within the cushion of your fragrant smoke rings,
my scalp tingles as if every
word inside were seeking a way out;
the center tightens, constricts,
like the onset of revulsion;

my rigid tongue begins to unravel
the tangle and it is spoken, at last…
your thick mass of hair becomes the most
tangible object in my vision, and i wrap it round and round
my aching fingers;

you are my reality; i am sick to death of fantasy
of elusive mind sewers;
i need to wrap you round and round inside of me
until this diseased corner of my mind
is healed by the wholeness of you and
your ability to put everything aside…

but i fear the reverse—of you becoming
possessed by me,
like the sallow bird of the sill,
trapped by invisible glass,
beating, beating against it,
never seeing the way out through
the open door…

strangers...soliloquies
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