The Dock at Parsons Lake

[Aish]

Dark has driven its tent spike into this side of the world      
and I just want everyone
to shut the fuck up, turn down      
or off or out, so I can be alone      
with the words in your veins    
and the intoxication
waiting on your tongue.    
     
I want the tires on the highways
to quit rolling,      
this supply and demand society
to forget itself and fast.
Maybe if it lost a few pounds
of media opinions      
handfuls of people
could find God for real      
and stop calling her names
like political power     
or dead presidents
or replacement theology.    
     
I just want to wear your skin
in the soft cricket songs of summer,      
swaying with the breeze
as it hums itself around our shoulders      
and our soles grow new shoots into the sky.    
     
I want to hold the coals of your eyes  
as they blaze over me in baptizement      
nourishing drought dry wells
I forgot I'm made from.    
     
I just want to demand
with nothing but my breath
as you crochet the sounds
into a long shawl, knotting
new octaves into almost silent heartbeats.

and I will draw tangled poems
on frosted window panes
inhaling the crisp air hovering over them,      
kissing the chill from one anothers palms    
     
until I thaw.  
And I just want to be those words in your veins, closer than home    
nearer the bone    
while cicadas wake in chorus at sunrise and I'm your mystery girl again.
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Dark has driven its tent spike into this side of the world      
and I just want everyone to shut the fuck up, turn down      
or off or out, so I can be alone      
with the words in your veins    
and the drug-like high waiting on your tongue.    
     
I want the tires on the highways to quit rolling,      
this supply and demand society to forget itself and fast.
Maybe if it lost a few pounds of media opinions      
some handfuls of people could find God for real      
and stop calling her names like political power     
or dead presidents or replacement theology.    
     
I just want to wear your skin in the soft cricket songs of summer,      
swaying with the breeze as it hums itself around our shoulders      
and our soles grow new shoots into the sky.    
     
I want to hold the coals of your eyes  
as they blaze over me in baptizement      
nourishing drought dry wells I forgot I'm made from.    
     
I just want to yield and demand with nothing but my breath,  
as you crochet the sounds into a long shawl that will protect us    
when the flash and flush of that first bloom quiets itself      
in autumn, and I draw pictures of poems we tangled ourselves into      
by dragging my fingertips through frosted window panes we erected    

inhaling the crisp air hovering over them,      
knotting new octaves into almost silent heartbeats,      
kissing the chill from one anothers palms    
     
until I thaw.  
And I just want to be those words in your veins, closer than home    
nearer the bone    
while cicadas wake in chorus at sunrise and I'm your mystery girl again.