This is for the two-year-olds who can not be understood because they speak half english and half god.Ask
Your back is so full with poetry that my fingertips wander endlessly in an intoxicated haze of your freckled syntax, gliding through pages, those great pages of yours,
i’ve carved shelves out of myself just to house them - these days, we are both overflowing
i confessed all of this to your hips, in such delicateness it could have been mistaken for an exhale,
and how i worship at this temple of ancient dialect, accented sighs, the perfectly articulated lines in your palms and smile, your shifts in breathing are novels i always carry with me, day and night,
eyes closed, sightlessly traversing every ridge and curve of the letters that make up your calves and shoulders, not so much trying to decipher as just reading for the sake of it
the lexicons in your eyes speak in leatherbound volumes, even from across the room i can hear them say
we are such monuments of language, aren’t we?