Rosenrot
The grapefruit
is the breast of
a courtesan
in yellow strolling
along your palm
in the deepest
corners of your
intrigued imagination;

somewhere between
your tongue
falling across your
lower lip, and sliding
like the horizon
downward,

studying the yoke
of the egg as it
fizzles above
the heated air
in solemn
oblivion

our socks
scuff the
floor though
we never realize
it, though we
prepare to
gather, say
farewell
forlornly,

dare myself
not to faint,
sip the stones
from the pond,
fulfill myself

seem to be
that ideal
vision pointing
it's edges
from the calamity
of your darting eyes
stamp my pose
on the windowpane,
tell you I have
learned the dozen
languages of the
mind, convinced
myself that
eternity is grasping
the curve at the
back of your neck,
whispering:

stay…
…here.