my forgotten testaments, and my hands
remember a body as breathing, that reply
along the passage the skin raises, a collect
every now and then, with every pore
instead feel of witness, the kiss
chase the old abstracted god on its journey

and letting go of thought, to get there
to never arrive but neither remain
one night as eclipse removes sky bright
day scattered, a green longing becomes weed
pick up blood, rhythm my nerve
melt beats and join, lip on the salt refrain

a sweat I’ve lost the tune for
thought files like a pink pollution
as I test my useless old escape
I’ve done all that, and exhausted
hear them dropping crass, thick
not learned, all felled from the head

how the skin lilt entered in that other
each second, each year refusing to rebate
all that bypassed my sinew, skin
or reverse the winter and its history
allowing the story to be made
the lines of my forgotten hands

suddenly given the taste of access
break the mass, the purple accretions
step over, reach into fleshy daylight
my excuses have forgotten how to lie
but there is still the moisture, the vinegar
now drink, tip of tongue, first taste

first taste

jill jones