JOHNMICHAEL SIMON POETRY

here hides a world

eyelids brushing

warm realms of sleep

where old men may

indulge their dreams

of silken skin, soft

cotton triangles

and shy acquiescence,

as if their passion,

reborn most naturally

into its pre-serpent

existence,

could never experience

again a moment

of guilt or forbidding

 

and if it is true

that they and their dreams

once were melted from

a single legend, what

could be more delicious

than to coalesce again

as stars?

 

triangle on triangle

under the covers

back into each other