JOHNMICHAEL SIMON POETRY

Think of it
the stars, the night
your mind in mine
all coagulating
in a séance of touching

Touch it
the night wind
brushing our naked
shoulders, shouting
here I am
like a broken whisper

Whisper it
across the gap
it creeps like red wine
painting the walls
of my mind
with your resin
creeping into me,
my sap, thoughts,
your fingers

 

Finger it
finger pods touching
dumb lips, words
un-mouthed flit
between the closets
in the breeze
of a naked night

You, I
and the whisper of others
peeping in the skylight
waiting to shuffle
the deck of their
worlds, into the
pack of ours
and deal us out
face-up, face-down
one-by-one