I Don’t Or Do
What is the shape of your eyes, that strange
sacred geometry, I saw them staring, as if
starved or somewhat evil,
and not for me.
And I’m not a virgin, not
without jealousy, I don’t or do adore to be
waiting, I don’t or do simply want to be worshiping
a vestal worshiping
a wild improbability.
In the Bible you were Jacob’s favorite wife.
His hands ever undeserving to be lost in the cotton
of your hair. To anticipate your hidden thighs,
not the warm granite I have pounded upon, rested
a teary cheek on, spoken softly to, and never won,
immobile in the sun. In the Bible
you were Jacob’s favorite wife.
Tiny and winged and every bone in my ribcage
is dry with devotion. I will not die for lack of your
lapis veins but would be slightly less corporeal.
Tap out the constellation of Leo.
It will blink, propitious neon green.
I will come free your limbs
from what could hardly be called garments.
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