Windmill

A poem about love, regret, and incest. All that good stuff.

I blow you out with the
smoke in my mouth, out
like last night’s debauchery.
I taste fire in my mouth, like
autumn or dying cicadas,
and your topaz skin blazes like ice.
The breeze is heavy here,
dirty and crisp, pinched to death into
speckles and natural inclinations.
I could fall here, speared, spurred on, break like
a dusty weed.
But I can still smell you.
Fake, like mismatched, mispronounced
French whispers,
hot in my ear, like guilt in my stomach.
Where is the rain when you
need it?
The soft petals of dew
buzzing to Earth from God’s eye
on the backs of heavy-winged moths,
like this heavy feel of oceanic heart,
sighs etched into eternity.
Leviticus?
I wish I could just watch us again,
rolling across the backs of my eyes, like
pornography.
Rather that than have your picture-print
Curdling in my dead hands,
as soft as ashes in Eros’ laughter,
like the lotuses in your eyes.