I want solely to feel
the bumps on your cold hands
like Neruda in Braille
so to touch worn beauty
-
talk with me, honestly
My mind lives on my ears
like an old barn house does
hearing the wind and owls
-
listen to me, I have
nothing but a stomach
full of fuzz moths flitting
around the light you put there
-
I want to taste the air
that floats like model ships
still stuck in their bottles
set it free from my lungs
-
smells like revolution
brewing like fine old wine
in my cellar soul here
I’ll collect my mind now