Archimedes' Principle

I tilt you towards me

and you breathe heavily against my face

your smooth, white porcelain skin

smelling of warm cocoa

after a night of restless, shallow swimming

My neck is a bottle waiting to be shattered

against a ship's maiden voyage

and I lose myself even before 

french-kissing the salty sea air

a slippery swooning swan song 

You run through me 

like fingertip-toeing, piano-playing

stone-skidding on water surfaces and I half-shut my eyes

to sensitize your tactile intrusion

into my soundless morning

The fishing poles have all the baits

but reeling them in might be a little

more trivial than lifting the anchor

out of its watery grave

The dock groans another tired warning

wood on wood on nail and wood and sea

My eyes cloaked on sails, knots being

untied and so the tilting and swishing

and chopping begins 

the dance of drowning.

10:15 AM

December 20, 2013

AIR DRIED

Inkwells dry up when stand fans

decide not to glance over their shoulders

they stare long enough to gather dust

on corners and every small thing

that bears no weight fall off the gray

grand desk

receipts, business cards, old letters

sometimes pens that roll on their bellies

headless without their caps

skydiving ceremoniously on the floor

some soft bound books may attempt

to breathe a few pages

against the force of the stare

but like dead fish, they just murmur uneloquently

still, no words come to wet parched papers

somehow the nearby wall will soon

give in, out of self-consciousness

and mounted images will shift uncomfortably

until there is nothing left but

the constant movement of air filling

your breath, no empty space to fill 

unflinching, purposive, 

these blades watch, without looking.

7.41 PM | December 12, 2013 | Thursday