Fed

like an engine stirring its cold gears,
fingers
into your mouth.
The light fractures bones
in an xray, taps its tassel-toe shoes
across the dancehall
of your body, and my eyes
both open and close
to you

who, to me
stares back obligingly like a kite
in my fingers. Who, when the line slacks
like something that should not be held,
or cannot, smiling soars skyward,
isolato strange
and, like a good trumpeter can, dips
and scratches the ocean-lips of my mind

(this ain't done yet)