floor beers 2

floor beers and bed rice

Whatever stupidly infinite essence
of spice-powder
spilt over,
that’s how much power
is pumped through
the battery charger—
your fingers
in my shoulder,
your elbows and body-weight
negating tension,
fascial adhesions…
a temporal heaven,
a passing tissue state
undone by the passage of time.
I am the rung-out restoration
of the body before it becomes soul.
The perpetual accuracy of understanding
is a concept not lost
on the intelligence of your skin.
There are the theories—the pre-cog
knowledge of “touchable”
before an actual touch,
the space before
the placing of your hand
upon mine,
before the physical IQ
of the species supersedes
the wisdom
of one body
against another.
There is
the pressure of process, maturation—
stoppage impossible as the longevity
of our current closeness.
There is the threat
of something spiritual—God,
I guess,
a whisper from the gaps
between muscle fibers.
“Call your pain
by name,” you say.
“Name,” I say.
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