lips
Not sure if this is finished yet…
I press the glass’s lip against my own:
it glows with cold, pulls redness
into them, capillaries, swollen,
bursting into bloodsugar, like sudden
sensory fruit: I feel these lips
as though they’re not my own, that I,
- hard, insensate as I surely am -
must really be the glass: surprised,
pressed fast, into the softness of another:
memory makes them yours,
and I can feel again, the moist elastic
of their touch; a drowsy murmur, made
only for the sake of movement and
vibration: pure verve; a resonance;
