Poem #106

Bible belt…

Viento del Sur.
Moreno, ardiente…

from “Veleta”, by Federico García Lorca

Richmond, Indiana, 20 March 2017

Wind of the West.
Porcelain, perspiring,
you dry into my flesh,
coaxing you into secretion
of lustrous
styles, clustered
with red flowers.

In a station of canines.
Instinctual, writhing,
one is lost to his or her scent
of Riesling
wine, clustered
with red flowers

Hunkered down in wool,
beneath a slanted sun,
chilled and craving,
you remind me, the season:
spring, and staring,
late into March,
Yet we are not walking,
and yet you are gone,
you are accompanying me
to the library,
Lorca and lust,
one in lonesome song.

Biding the hours
partners serve
their separate labors,
or wasting time, waiting
by wooden shelves, searching
archives for answers
til romance will
rinse off her hands,
untie off her apron,
and rest the red, coloncue locks
on flannel prints.

Yet why obsess, stanzas,
in clusters of red flowers?
The silver maple stands
symbol of hunting,
symbol for the chase,
symbol for inspiration,
androgynous, man and woman,
imagining, recursive, ex, betwixt his pecks
and my anus cheeks, betwixt each aureola,
betwixt her labial lips.

Why is pleasure wrong?
And yet sensual syrup streams
from sex glands, strings
in sinful phrases,
bestial and prison,
cardinal and covetous,
impure for pages
bound in dictionaries,
I have cum in climax
in needful nerves,
prodding and pulling,
man and woman;
this cuts chords
off the cold, in awe
of the pain.

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