swell

I wish I could wrap
my lips around your cock
under the saxophone solo
of "you don't know what love is"
(Chet Baker's version to ferment the sorrow)
(a demented diversion to lament tomorrow)

as a fingertip sways deliriously numb
in its addiction to the repeat button,
emulating the undesirable taste of pain
that shoots back up the palate
like onions
or semen
trying to push words through
the scrunch in my throat
where cords in heat coil
the way hair threads cringe against candles
or foreheads crinkle against memories

too many words resemble the past
and too much of the past leashes the future
strangling hope
in a darkness moist of jazz standards
and decrepit walls
where it's impossible to escape
the rise of each morning
or the thirst of the heat
or the sound of hyperventilation
crowding over "sophisticated lady"

the lustful swell in these hips
just a melancholic retreat from truth
and almost as beautiful as when Toronto rain
collapses heavily
like a bird shot in mid-flight
or a young heart stabbed in its dream
a relinquished fall
as vast and theatrical
as when defeated empires tumble
the architectural representation of glory
vanquished under loss
and left for minds to imagine
the way these forlorn palms
yearn to immerse in your flesh
wishing to hold a materialized version
of tearful musing
and pretend for just one night
that this world
was made for poets.