Closing
your eyes, turns on my closet light,
looking
for you, somehow inside me.
Where
your hormones push into action,
my
inner-voiced four-year-old self asks how.
When we share a lucid
dream,
our
mothers must have made a matchmaking pact.
When
you play your lung accordion,
your
song of laughter defies my gravity.
Where
aging slowly fades your perspective,
I
am a resin of compassion.
Where
your sensory experience honestly bores me,
I
give you my riddle of masturbation.
Where
you are the body of an animal,
I
sit in the lap of my father reading to me.
I
have a private bank account,
where
I covet the earnings of your breath.
At
night I slip into the perfume of your capillary fatigue,
sleeping
on a bear rug close to your fire.
There
are times when your erection loads my camera,
eventually,
shoots my film.
Every
mouthful of food you unconsciously eat,
sooner
or later I give to the goodwill.
Where
you are the miracle of life to yourself,
creates
for me, a sacred space from within . . .
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