If padded hammers striking
copper wires comprise desire
I find the tune grown thin. That
theme has faded into evening
air, deformed by metaphor.

The body is immortal
in the moment only, not
arpeggios. Parsed feelings
are dumb puppet shows. Better
to drown oneself in touch

than float, still sighing, on green
garden pools, rehearsing more
and endlessly one’s old
continuos. Better to
glide through thighs and breasts, plucking

chance strings or being plucked by them.
That melody resounds. So now
I’ll shut the keyboard up and
go reside beneath the sign
of tousled limbs and hair. And

in that sumptuous silence
kiss; be kissed.