The Innisfree Poetry Journal
by Peter Kline
I like the creases of you, the lobes and flaps and folds, the unctuous junctions,
the overlaps and sticky ripples, the woozy crevasses.
I like the knobs of you, the grips and nibs and baubles and fleshy bubbles, the
squishy tips and buttony bits and the hard stops.
I like the bones of you, the wrist rubble, the basso rumble, the swanned
bassoon, the tin-can sturdiness of your hips and the ridge-line shins.
I like the stink of you, the armpits' vinegar pink before a bath, the sourdough
pith, the fever-water, the heady morning-after mash.
I like the thought of you, the dorsal-fin suggestion of your name, your deep
seclusions, even in the next room,
Even in my lap as a rock-chunk gut-shot can't-talk-back-jack fact.
Poem with a Five O'clock Shadow
I hang up my good clothes, redeploy my books.
I Windex ants in the stickiness,
brandish a broom halfheartedly
at two pigeons cozying above the breezeway.
For the fruit flies I make no excuses.
opportunists crotch-sniffing beer bottles
and kiwi rinds, any stinking thing.
Then the hours come rabbling in
with their cigarette burns and their cups outstretched.
I do what I can. I please the first with cream,
but these five smirk at anything but gin.
Call me the bedwrecker, the ruthless
rainwatcher. Call me fat-lipped joy.
I put my lover on a plane this morning.
Separate. Still practicing.
Copyright 2006-2012 by Cook Communication