Our Lips Brush Like Wings In Delicate Rhythm

No one needs to teach us songs. A design emerges.
Your tongue is a light sprayed across the pores of a collaborative
surface. Your fingertips resemble the soft mouths of baby animals
just before they're fed. I am in love with the death you bring me,
all its epiphanies and permutations, and with how we fall down afterwards,
our limbs limp, as if something essential inside us has been shaken.
If I pray, and I do, it is only a way of exercising repetition.
Something about this is terrible, terrifying,
I am tying strings around it, winding the parts
back into something whole, something infinitely married.
Flesh is so fragile. If you can, stay.

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March 2001 surface of light

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Elaine Thomas is a poet/photographer living in the desert southwest, where most of the time it's warmer than elsewhere. She co-edits interweave(zine) with Kurt Nimmo, and is also the photography and art director of Erosha, a literary journal of the erotic. Her work has appeared in a variety of print and online publications. 'concession' 'Some Room in an Unspecified City' 'fetal position' poetry/elaine thomas -Kurt Nimmo music accompaniment