my itch, i talk to you,
words dropping
into no mans land,
into dead water
i cross my legs
i confront you, itch,
i cross my arms,
i refuse to call you
i will not give
a name to you:
there is too much
blindness in detail
maybe my legs are
as hairy as a spider's,
my smile is crooked
and my teeth are false
maybe you have a pimple
on your cheek, a wart
on your heart, but why
should i be concerned
through the microscope
i can see only small
parts of you and me,
i put it in the cellar
not wishing to name
pornographically parts
but kissing you,
my arms embracing
each naked wrinkle,
softly singing warmth,
tickling the cicadas
in your head and hair
this is my itch, beyond
the edge of your eyes,
far from your vision
and so near to mine
i want to sleep
and wake with you,
the humming stillness
coming to life with a smile
in mornings embroidered
with golden light,
silvery bird song
and long long breath
silent, no words
spoiling the day
where it begins,
i talk to you
now with words
and with an itch,
and maybe
this is all
to take to my end,
people to dance
and to eat herrings,
to be happy once in a while.
good night, itch,
i ate and i drank,
it was good,
the time has come.
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