Posted on 04 November 2009

Barnacles on my ships my hands
I touch you / wrap you with my body / to fix
what you tell is unfixable — your face turns towards the wall
like a yardful of beauty
that turns me away, forgetting.

But I forget in order to remember; as I watch you sleep
I am amongst the inner caverns of Lascaux,
amongst the painted deer, also leaping — the same deer
I see watching the blue
cars pass from roadside, flipping her tail

like a finger. She is the nude sunbather
in the graveyard. & sometimes, these days,
I walk in
upon you & God, an intrusion
almost obscene…deep caverns of my body, what

you have painted therein, with
the male body’s
stain (what we have seen!),
barnacles on my ships my hands.

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