Slow Confabulation

I, oh I, am not immune
From beauty lightly borne, from the
Pheromones, half-kisses, calmed oceans
Not strong enough to contest the
Bright.

And the tears my cheeks allow
Are freshwater, lucid, dreaming

Daylight. As the ponderous rumination
Of the unkempt spheres
Neglected now by devils and by gods
Whose memory remains only
In terse history and
Literary back-alleys

And my scars the tanning sun disdains
Echo those words of prophets forgotten
And their children play
In the selfsame alleyways

– Books which preach falling
In love with empty spaces.

I am not immune from
The soul-bewitching devilry
Which into question calls
All that we hold dear

All that I hold dear
I suppose
Of delicate breast
Of fine-downed legs, of sex,
Of deliciousness

But all, indeed, in memory
A tear or scar for every unheard whisper
Indeed, her river, her delta

All gods remain
A slow blink away

And I am not immune from
Her
Her antiseptic embraces
Her distant salutations
Her words of love found
In postcards never sent

It's too far
Kisses, tears never travel

And I am not immune from
That bone-trembling
Love