mgouker

If there is a world, let me be in it:I repeat that oath in the leaky grotto,sworn seven days ago to the one whose ashesI carry now in a box aboard the ferryboat. Turmoil extends across our passagelike my seasick stomach churning.I clutch the frigid rail, afraid to tipinto the sea foam’s moon’s reflection. Pitching

Upon a bridge she stood, skin kissed by sweat,a white romper, naked shoulders, lace spaghetti straps.Her tiara necklace jingles, and I like, Pavlov’s dog,starving, my mouth a lake, swallow in response. She I can assemble, from my vast pornographic collage:Amazons; mannequins; and chopstick-prodded nyotaimori models,nipples hidden by scallop shells as businessmen snatch fishfrom refrigerated flesh,

Michael, when you toss a handful of sand  to fall upon the tepid sea foam, do you ever imagine each grain a day? Or when turning pages of a favorite novel you crave to finish but never end, does that unturned prose you cradle remind you your own is more feather than stone? Every morning

Milk spills Tears splatter, provoked by dead silence I grasp your carousel’s brass ring: fire works.

We two voyagers stamp tickets to frolic in the sunLight dribbles in beads into our outstretched eyes taking flightHands clasped as laughing children, we pass into the gardenIts orchestra of scents: roses, violets, lavenderNectar explodes on tongues beckoning. Carnaval floats glow.Ears bent to harp strings plucked, we stagger, levitate, and danceUntil arriving cliffside to melt