Discourses; Anton
Peculiar sputtering of ghosts
dry heaving whopping coughs,
the mutterings of poetic
pilgrims, pungent as the lemons
we are sucking, though our hands
are puckering.

Thrones, he says
are made of marble
cut from a tortes shell,
where all sailors on
longer voyages will
wish us well, or in
Jerusalem where the
pious pardon lovers
for their grandiose
conversions to idolatry;

eloping from so much
moping around, in the red
heat where books curl
under fingertips, and skin
becomes glass;

Anton,
how I could see
through you enough
to search ever more
deeper for more;

and the table settings
were placed haphazardly
atop the cloth, lace, like
when I was a child, and even
my ghost-sister is given
a ceremonial seat; though
the banquet hall is devoid
of kings and carpenters,
only fishermen remain; caught
in concentric nets of woven
detanglement,

yet, you do
not touch me,
merely speak,

I ask,
close my eyes
to the ripe world
rigid in its lasciviousness,
ask,
though you will not touch me.