I only ever sought approval & Sex in the confines
by Amy King
[ poetry - march 04 ]
I only ever sought approval
Persian carpet and wraps of crinoline delivered.
All flesh is grass, stews the unrequited air nestled
in my lung-base. The universe flowers at my feet. Think
of your mother's mother, her delicate child of octopoid
arms, darling and darling. The photographs become
cushions of bridesmaids and manna in ironed pants.
Initial this document, sleep upon the smorgasbord
and carry a dish towel memento of parties to come,
of air pollutions descending from heaven. I only eat
name brand lace when I'm in your graces. Now confess
your work ethnicity within the arena of pigeon killers on
balance. I expect an inking heart will herein take my place.
Sex in the confines
I was in the next door bar sober
by you standing one night suddenly
a desperado among the people,
a tall boy upon your strict girl
approach, never the one to go
to hands that hardly burn or
give into submission. Shall
we count on even digits in
the bathroom line? We do and
a cloak of incense suits Hart Crane's
sleep. Within his sea drowning
briefcase still exists handwritten
pillow manuals: how to fertilize
and rain haloes from the color
of light. Keep writing skins
of homemade poems pressed
to the rims of open salt cans. I pass
off your vodka tonic for this palm
wrung dark thin blue, discuss
welcome mat grass green, always
skipping the reach of private tentacles
to lean out & gather over your space.
