Feel the soil crumble and its pressure, kiss partner's lungs,
let your lungs be how your partner breathes
on a cold night. Try this in the dark. Keep
your arm locked in dirt for as long as you can as
dirt's hug should feel spooned, close as pudding.
Squirrel a pit in the peat and lie down
with the dead's dispersions in half-lives and singlet.
Scene of the graver enclosures, pressures in
crushings, and lift minds to corn starch flecked
gravy clawed molecules misting root
mouths' tornado and precipitate sprinkle of ash, fish
bones and lye, atoms spinning betwixt, proud kid
goat on shed. Now sun out, click the nimble
wild wall, the skin that works the inside trick,
tricked out and contained with throbbing
releases, desire's mingling and these worms'
soft mouthed pokes. Your might and your face under pond.
There rub your clay foot in root gag and swallow,
going gulp kiss, you liver a burrow
of hot piss and quiver. Sore the core lava, fissures
upthreading flash footholds and bright mantling hands.
Now with a thumb, do brush the soil from these intricate weaves
of your partner's brow, he looks lovely, locks in chuckled oak.
You look magnificent, make-believe eyes blue brown and pupil.
See that iris a lightning, see may storms across grained eyes.
Fused fingers of opaque glass become prisms
of lovers burying arms, paired feet, two by two, two by two,
down into the tickle of the dark cool, under sand.
-Jason Zuzga
