Alphabet City

There's nowhere to run but forward
when your very own buttocks
are chasing after you

I look up; the view of my forehead escapes me,
I have trouble tasting my own tongue

I have gazed into eyes,
though I've never heard a word 
from the ear 

despite listening intently
(somewhere once  I heard that 
gerunds are bad)

maybe all words 
are bad

the imperfection of the green bottle
is more precise than the words that attempt 
to describe it

the contents of the bottle shake,
underground tremors

but not enough to make waves,
albeit how tiny

I can throw thoughts like darts,
from my bullseye out to any
errant arc

aren't we the pair?

I stroke the umbilical cord,
coaxing it gently to relax,
to collapse into a coil,
to reel you in

to feel you
in total darkness
attempting
to discern shapes
any form
will do
to exit the nil
nipping at wet organisms
that threaten - nay promise - 
to engulf

we ride the tide home
in free-fall akimbo

asleep back-to-back,
we have nowhere to go
but forward

cc: Chagall 2021