The Contortionist's Spine (a poem) -
Two hundred and eighty-two days— The number of days she hummed on my back To the tune of B-flat and a black hole Fifty-seven octaves below middle C That’s where I’d like to go for a swim, In star and moonshine Somewhere between your green-apple flesh In the taste of sugar lips and grapevine That’s from where all glow descends From far away and wholly too close to see That’s from where... Read More