Sunday, 2 April 2017


In the gallery, they tell me
that eye contact must be sorcery,
for how else to explain it?

A field of vision the breadth
of a cruise deck, a pupil smaller
than a pomegranate seed...

Boom! Somehow, two pomegranate
seeds find each other on the boat
to Hawaii—the only ones who play

pinochle or believe in love
at first dinosaur. I tell them
T rex had a snout as sensitive

as human fingertips, that
there must be so many
ways to kiss. Suddenly...

Boom! We end up slick
& horizontal again, sticky
pink fruit in our cracks.

We’re too close now to catch
each other’s eyes, so we shut
up and fumble. Blackness

& bruised lips, we reach out
for something sorcerous.
Tiny arms, still grasping in the dark.

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