Peter Johnson
I’m drawn to the ineffable, yet cathedrals leave me empty, the charismatic next door has no imagination, near misses of comets go unexplained by theories of emanation--all frauds, unsoiled neck braces piled in empty corners. Enigma of the Stigma, or Vice Versa
(for Genevieve)
But I trust the stem of this feather, its eye a spot on the pillow where she lays her head, her rump warming the hollow of my stomach, lilies sprouting from a book on her nightstand, a perfumed hair creasing my tongue.... Mysteries inviting both penetration and erasure.