Moments of Salt

Here we go:

What will they accept when the mail is dead?

How will my fingerless hands communicate to them?

Why will I continue to eat?

If I am three quarters full of shit

that means I at one point had three quarters worth

of fine wine, food, and swallowed time.

There is no depression that tastes like

t. will’s ice cream

all the girls I meet talk much of ice cream

they talk of their travels and the small parlors

that served them and told them how cute they looked

and added to the baby fat around the bone of the hip

which fingers

melt like ice cream on the nyc july sidewalk

leaves the hands sticky and sweet

I wonder why they don’t crave corn on the cob instead

By the winter fires when their hips deflate

When im at their side wishing I was naked

a puddle of colored milk spreading in front

of the fireplace like it was july

smell the buttered corn trying to understand

and think of ice cream

so the girls think when their confidence falls

the worry creeps and the desire for ice cream

the small parlors and memories in past suns

line up behind the eyes

flutter, dip their chins and hide their faces in hands

mouths circled in superman blue

moose tracks, mint chocolate chip

sheepish little girls with full breasts

hips at a V

thinking a good fuck will cure the flask

of gender kept distilled and away

come that dip in strength when memories

of ice cream take the place of sons and lovers

taste tests and sugar fantasies