John Biscello

It could be like this. Early morning,

light milkpooling at the edges of your bed,

dawnfrost

bleaching your bare feet and subtly wriggling toes

softly phantom,

and I follow the erogenous ghost

past your shins,

to the rounded

pate of your knees

(pausing at the fresh scrape,

planting in its raw a small kiss,

it seems

you’re always falling down

and getting hurt

like a five year old

destined to model bruises

from a catalog of Childhood’s Wounds)

and I move beyond your knees,

to the shadowed country

of your inner thighs,

their arousable tuck

and hothouse climate,

and there, I stop, I squeeze,

I pinch, I press, I knead,

and knead some more,

and say, It could be like this,

skin toasting skin to prime

and pinken sinsual,

our bodies,

lazily twined,

like question marks

relaxedly slack,

unsure of their how

or why,

just happy

to be a part

of the grammar

of easy smolder

and blessmounted cries.

I could go on, I say,

but there

you grin the grin of a scythe

and tell me

to stop talking

and making metaphor

of your little masochist

who adores the holy ache

betwen pauses,

and take you,

now,

to that place

where sound

is remembered to touch,

in the founting fury

of earlymorning

ghostlight.