The muffled thrumming of a heartbeat doesn't
strike me
as something a computer's microphone could pick up on....
The quickening ricocheting of my heart against
the xylophone known as my rib cage.
No more dreaming of the day
where I can literally feel myself bursting with music
No more dreaming of the day where I can feel my mind oscillating
to the rhythm of maddened hooves,
to the African drums that have invaded my chest.
Seems that I have been held in some dreaming state
by the thread-like fingers
of an idea,
[a memory]
of your glistening,
smiling eyes
as you rub the sleep out of them.
Pools of copper and
eucalyptus green
swim
across the curvatures
of lyrics left unsaid,
etched permanently onto your collar bone
as
they slowly
trickle
down
your shoulders,
floating along the currents
of your arms
until they reach the harbor
or your hands.
Is it dirty,
is it naughty,
is it wrong?
To wish,
to want,
to need,
to hope,
that maybe
those same hands
that cook chickens
could cradle
the girl
filled with
silly fantasies and endless dreams?
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