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The Tongue

Chris Martin
for Ben Estes
So taste
as day
rearranges the red
and orange flowers
from tongue to tongue
like losing the cymbal's 
clang for all its glints
we crept behind the moon
which always insists on sleeping over 
barely a belly for a mouth
an hour past the movie
we were still filming 
the way food fills
each curving lapse
between your teeth
or song
in sheets
against the windshield
no one believes
air is the enemy
so don't be afraid
to breathe all this speech
someone already died to say
the moon is on the couch
so we climb onto the roof
where our bellies swell open
to slosh and go flowers
red and orange flowers
hairy and pink-stemmed
like champagne flutes
we always overuse
everything that 
happens happens
wrong if not
by tongue's might
in the little time
left before sun drives
all the workers into work
all the workers into work

Copyright © 2011 by Chris Martin. Used with permission of the author.

Copyright © 2011 by Chris Martin. Used with permission of the author.

Chris Martin

by this poet

poem

All that happens happens

in the hollow

mouth

open mid-vow

knowing

only song will do

what an empty cave needs

done, drone

that seeds to fill

one space and then that

space’s space, what

are we made

poem
                    I was out interviewing clouds         amassing
                    the notes of a sky pornographer    while patches


                                             of the city subnormalized
by fear of fear            like a reef bleaching closed


                    I took to the streets