there is no erasure of things first felt

by Amantine B


in this frail and heroic prospect
of boundless fear and violent lusts,

Skinbound; she would you were a
Butterfly in a hurricane, so she

might write poems of you, out in
the open, where, they'd roam naked,

in their subterfuge.


in that place of things first felt,
wings practice breathing the Unspeakable,

for nothing will be like the present
was before: Love escapes into primary

nouns and vowel'd down pewter tongues:
Copper deities drool peroxide rain into

into the importance of Dark.


in these slow, narrative hours of things
first held, moths grow breasts and lose

their desire for flight; here, in this
undoing, you and she meet. Mouths clothed

in Arousal; she holds her fingers against
the light, to frame the sky, so you never

die from her thirst of stars.

Dedicated to Philip F. Clark, in gratitude of the things poets share.