Sex at 38

Ingratiating wayward body,
turning
turned,
still

there is some fusion, some arbiter in linking fields

    immanence
        or lack.

But still
        the shoes pile up
        the omniscient voice,
        (instability)

the paradox of Zeno--this stepping ahead
too quick
without a map.

The last exercise was a steady one
hands focused on the incline
knees bent in supposition to the Being
that is Air

so quiet, She
so drunk with the scent of it

slipped into

     a static
as plastic
bag
in the sauntering wind.




*addendum: "sex" is a misnomer. More spiritual lovey-ness.


* contributing to a series of "Sex at" poems published originally by the dear-to-my-heart Artie Gold and super Barry McKinnon, among others. And now, there's a book (of which I just found out I'm in. hmm): http://www.chaudierebooks.com/books/collectedsex.html