{for Fateme}


In your homeland
snoring is an ancient
form of writing.
arabic throat braille.
raised welts on the
blind skin of apnea
translated through a
vibrational canal of snorts.
a language in of itself
pleading rescue from the
din of its own unbearable noise.

then later,
you kick the covers away
and primrose candlelight
became a flicker in six
degree incriments of
separation between breath
and dream.

such vulnerability the
night has sewn into you.
the comical quickness in which
you'd cover yourself if
the waking state were an issue.

still rigid as superstitious
women in little Italy who
cross themselves before concealing
their prayers in secret bracup
compartments where all devils
fear to search.their tongues
acquienced to the palpable silence
wishing.

O little red nightie hood.
i am but a mere manimal ensnared
in the quiet stuness of you.a beast
no one warned you of and you
are an unwrapped package before
me.tonight,the slant of all
gentlemenly routine is now a
failed experiment recoiled back
into chilvary's lost memoir of
broken parables.

an excuse to navigate your body's
Persian atlas by greed of
wolf vision.the primal stare.
my coyote gaze animal enough
to lick you awake.

a sight that touches.
leaving behind no wounds
to transgress against.lust
as a lost art flirting with
the dream portal's visible membrane.
the line least implied
between a half naked pose
and the sleep you loudly
talk into..









"See How It Sound? A Little
Unrational."