(no subject)

Every swallow yr hand on my throat
I keep having visions of yr fingers smoothing my shirt down over my chest
-the mundanity of revelation-
feeling yr palm playing the wife to my cotton fiction of a tight bind.
You press yr body against my back, a seduction of stones
gardenias liquor, the strange secrets yr skin knows
disappearing my tits with yr touch.
Take a breath and the light stuck in yr wrists expands
swallows the summer,
sun grinding eastern fields to fall.
I keep hearing songs unfold the skyline of yr state
-the pluck of steel strings and guitar bottlenecks-
and wanting you to wind into the crook of my arms like so much blue
still not quite knowing what to do with these sounds,
swallowing.