Poetics

communion

our dreams are dirty and coarse. we wake up tired, a certain weight in our bodies, the weight of long days of inactivity. we never try to remember the dreams, the half-life dreams of water, of floating around in the cumulative weight of our soon to be sexless bodies, the lips of fish that open up to swallow us, the homes we make out of each other, underwater lights from the long-dead eyes of our lovers, lovers who are still learning what to offer freely, what to put in the gift box, what to only offer when we renounce our love for God and therefore our love of guilt and shame. what we first perceive as dead eyes, if we give up God, become the colors of festival. we wake up in drool, sheets stained with sweat and the remains of night’s many questions. our arms reach out for our lovers on the other side of the bed, the lovers who offer us only their bodies, and even then we must not reach the margins, what is in the gift box stays there, only to be enjoyed as an idea, so that in the end our lovers stray so far away into night’s questions that they become the noise of our dreams. now the lovers turn their bodies to us in a way to suggest warmth and not betray they have been awake since 3 a.m. waiting for the first signs of day. we are unclean and therefore clean, our lovers sing. they are a trope, and we their trope. depending on how coarse and dirty we feel in the duration the earth takes to go around the sun. our dreams are not of this city but of a different one, somewhere unreachable. green apples, bananas, cold chicken, flat coke make up breakfast, punctuated by a shared cigarette. we take short, infrequent puffs as way of making up, don’t ask us for what. by way of conversation we end up on Hilda Hist. letters are written, emails read. we are here preparing for the second coming, as a joke, sorting through scarves and shoes, in watches set to different time zones, watching which parts of the body are masked and which parts are offered like red zebrawood flowers, which parts obscene. sometimes we go in search of our city, our unreachable city, where the noise of our dreams is consolation.

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