Friday, September 9, 2022

Palea by Tory Dent

Palea

 
Only my mouth taking you in, the greenery splayed deep green.
 
Within my mouth, your arm inserted, a stem of gestures, breaking gracefully.
 
Into each other we root arbitrarily, like bushes, silken, and guttural.
 
Palaver, we open for the thrill of closing, for the thrill of it: opening.
 
The night was so humid when I knelt on the steps, wet and cold, of prewar stone.
 
A charm bracelet of sorts we budded, handmade but brazen, as if organic.
 
I cannot imagine the end of my fascination, emblazoned but feather-white too.
 
The gold closure of this like a gold coin is, of course, ancient.
 
Why can't experience disseminate itself, be silken and brazen yet underwater?
 
A miniature Eiffel Tower, an enameled shamrock, a charm owned by its bracelet.



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