Story flesh
Birds are doing summersaults
against a rapture sky.
This our city,
pock-marked with the best intentions
mankind had to spare,
lies against this summer sky
like some old beached Leviathan.
Statues dressed in pigeon
melt inside the summer heat
that melts into these endless nights:
so camp-fire soft and slow,
made for lustful sleeping-bags
and whisper throat-capped laughter.
And whisper wisdom has these nights
belong to shadows talking
of this dead queen and that late knight
and graves that won’t stop marching.
But we, my love of this one night,
so sleeping-bag entwined,
don’t hear no hunter,
fear no wolf,
won’t dwell on castles made of bone.
Our story flesh just whispers low,
untouched by death’s fine markers.
Our bodies now are sea and coast,
brought home by foam and tide.