Free Stuff on Sunday Night, Too

Doxology of the Kindred

Phantasm, connected by the bridge 

that calls out silence . . . splits it like an atom 

into arias . . . you must want my attention. 

The overture in the window broadens 

into vibratory tentacles that reach the mind's 

well of defenses. June, I hear, and know it 

as a season for the nameless. A promise. 

Every nerve wishes you well. Though we can't 

comprehend being beyond the hope of a savior. 

Listen, you ask? We're finally attuned and yet 

distracted. So much base grit and lust . . . 

oh, the lust for being unaware still: 

To sense the breast as the slope 

of heaven's ascent, to feel the great churn 

in testicles that wraps the world in veils. 

Sex. I know how much you miss it. 

So many left in flesh endure

the restless hope for it. Tell me 

if our universe just can't exist 

without it. That would be a turn 

down a path toward the forest

that branches into hopelessness. 

But if that's where we're led, 

so be it. You seem reticent, 

sweet phantasm. Come here . . .

let's unbutton something 

together. I want to hear the breath

that transcends the vacuum we fear. 

That small rush of everything wonderful

lilting into the brief realm of the vocal.