Yes as thievery, except if saved for
a fantasy in which I in a backless
you on a typical balcony
overlooking Vltava, gripping the latticework,
metal, a barrier to leaping
into an esoteric night, fixed and ornate
enough, like my penchant for the infinite
within the singular, encounter you
as tributary, serpentine, the heat of your fingers
on my spine, my head turning
as you bend to catch the yes
I'd held latent, a mine you trigger with
your tongue, neither of us
mean to stop exploding.
About this poem:
"I made a fiction from a fantasy to enter through the truth of language. The filmic seduction scene made of place, of body and object coalesce in imagined action, contrasting with a heightened sense of desirable possibility, or possible memory."