Earth-Touching
He says things in his sleep, perhaps
as a way of expressing the inexpressible
thoughts leaping from Brahma's forehead
about the Seal of Liberation, his beloved
and playful consort under peach and plum
trees casting shadows both long and short as if
there is a play of ghosts guessing how many
names there are for nostalgia and morbidity,
how he once worshipped her feet, said to bind
them was cruel, that incense and oils were
used and the soles of her feet formed a crucible
after her toes curled on the sixteenth day
of the fifth month of every year when the roles
of heaven and earth were reversed, clarity returns
to a voice that understands the calamity
of speech returning to earth.
Vulgar Poem #4
He keeps Ambrosia in milk cartons
beside all those other cold things opening
between midnight and 3 in some fantasy
where the woman is lying on her belly,
half asleep when he walks to the fridge,
searching for the milk to splash on the small
of her back; the sheets are milky wet and
he's licking intricate textures of cool tender flesh
evocative for its creamy drenching when
the interior of his mouth heats and his face
is slippery with shivery streams tingling his lips
with her moans milking his open throat.
