Wherein I dedact my love poem.
John Myers

Now I taste at a distance, you ask if
that makes you the arrow, blemished with praise,

brilliant in the air as multiples said
sail as green and skipping and quick. It does.

If you ripen for me, I will be your
yew, your bow; we will skit parks, flexible

and sunburned. I smile, commingled and I
taste all shades of suppurate, ripped, I wake

under a glass stallion, and haughtily,
he circles the river, which cages the

peacock, the tricklespeed, the constellates
and my chasing you. Lossy and pickling

I try to manipulate, taste peacock
and you, the lakeshore and now, I wish to

shit it. Placate the rib your body pulls
from me overnight. Breath all sipping,

be aroused in this bandage and braver.
Your ribbon is when the sky was still a

comfort. My dulcimer is thick and lean
and leaning on everyone I can see.

You can paint bracelets of broken bargold,
can’t you? Bend, for a moment, plié. You

can. You can take it.

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