calculation is null
I tapped his trunk; the syrup was stale.
She mats the damp hair of his pudding belly
beneath the galaxy of her palm; her sweat
and solar flares rend in rubbing his paunch
a tear in his hiding place, into which she
pushes her arms and pulls her barefeet,
sloughing mites and their planets rubbing her
skin along the flaming, weeping incision. I
bathe in our wattage sun, banners of nicotine
comet sheen ruffling in matte glow some miles
around me. Blinking to smile to laugh, I
settle into my joke, and ovate-- Bravo!-- with
my companion hinterlands the hum of those
flies around enlightenment. A dollop of flesh rips
the curtain, streaming maelstroms euphonic, to flattening
juices and shredded skin
on my cheek in four-thousand years.
My mother dies and my empire jumps
and seventy-three generations
of desert count generations
sit sunning at my side to witness
her explosion of his chest and
his implosion into her head
to swallow themselves.
I twinkle and point:
a spot of nickel in my heel
sighs and cries and lies to magnesium,
"they love; so what?"
So I glut my sun and expel my
blinking laugh, wontons and
stabbings and commas away from their
again settling into each other.