Figure puddles
some head we for warmth/
collect cuddle/
and swarms of butterflies
we ate for lunch/
I,
more than soft/
more than radio
flesh and feather,
black smoke
drips for your eyes/
tips for your tongue
and rungs for your lips/
weather.
I would be so liquid,
lukewarm as to cause
riddles to speed up the spine/
lightning! and the clasp of hands
and the sifting of sand/
we'd walk into suns
call me. nine one seven
yeah, just up the west side,
nice but not too/
how's friday it doesn't end until/
quiet but I hate/
there's all sorts of children and restaurants/
it doesn't end
please,
all I want in silk black
for the window,
to curve the evening's gold/
you.
my guest. sit, friend,
I wish you all the water
and the puddles to bathe your toes in,
I wish you all the weather/
sit, freedom is voice
raised between us
and making us into air/
you and me could be purveyors
of long streets and overcoats/
or just inspecting pavement
with our soles/
or on a river,
punching the air with our conversations/
headway on little brown boats/
sit.
look at the time.
stay if you like/
there is all the night,
and dinner will be ready.
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