Proxy

What does the body know except what it wants.
Right now, it wants to lay in the lopsided square of sun
that lands on the old gray rug.

Instead I curl into the corner of the couch
and scribble, a minion to the mind and its lawyers,
a scribe for the endless drive to know.

How many more words do we need for love?
Let it be what we do, not some sequence of phonemes,
not some magnet we rearrange on the metal cabinet’s side.

Above the desk, the Britannica volumes do not follow
their order, the alphabet breaks after H,
and I force myself not to reshelf the dark spines.

I tell my mind: accept what is. I tell mind:
kiss the lips of disorder. I tell my mind:
the body would steal for love.

Meanwhile the body resists the printer’s hum,
the aquarium’s gurgle, the drone of fluorescent lights,
and looks at the sun puddle there on the carpet

and says to the mind, I mean now. And the sun,
though it cannot speak, fills in the skin’s hollow
and spoons generous warmth into the limbs, into the belly,

into this meantime where the lover is not.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s