What if there was a kind of sex
that was only your sex and bore no
resemblance to any other, and had no
relation to human pornography
I took a bus from your corner
The trees slid past, distance inverse to speed
and the various velocities of the moving elements
gave their own unanalyzed pleasure
precise and contingent on every physical factor,
mere and immeasurable.
When it’s dark and my night-sight
finds you like a white bird
I grow like a root in your head
There are plots I could follow
You made them with string and small bulbs
Maps that overlay maps like webs
In your “Andromeda” nightgown
splashed by the sea, chilled by the wind
My love wants to come
My love wants to run
and write my signature on you like
wind blown wire, bent struts
the sea swallowed up
the car and the passengers and all
because a woman haughty with a dare,
adoring a dare, because she chose to walk
in the woods in a crocheted poncho (called
“fella” by a guy cruising for
witchy looking boys)— there are plots
you made placing small objects
incongruously in woods—
because a woman mocking with a dare
flared up in the headlight’s glare
In your “Andromeda” nightgown
barefoot on the cliff
the gas line is crimped
so the flame is colder
drinking beers by a
blue wall of fire
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