He draws in seizures: refuting the air as a space but as arms
like oils embracing, soldering a deep burgundy brook
balancing it's waves on a cheek
like a map to a Muse who knows she'll break his heart
to keep his spoken
with a crest of comb and dagger,
and he leans in parched kisses, swallowing kestrels
and whispers and armies of whales in the sky,
every breath of your eye is a barnacle in sleep
by the tickling of his hair, like an orchid growing
with hearts as hummingbirds wings
and the sound of weeping,
and the sound of straining iron keels.
He draws in seizures.