IMMANENCE

My own jury I acquitted my inner savage,
known for one-kneed vows to décolletage.
I was aiming for shadows bones make,
namely, the jolt of leaves and roses. A clock struck
and returned the slick smell of snow
on chanterelles. I settled into a naked meadow.
Beneath my right palm disappearing, I brought
an even finer thirst for soil and amateur brawls.
When I faced Nature, I had not a tincture of will.
I tossed her on my bed and kept still.

SPEAKING EAST COAST

As if hypnotized by the illicit pleasure
of her barely touching hand on his cheek
and her eyes pressed to his mouth and her lips
fixed in paradise, the taxi driver, peering in his
rearview and long arrived at the hotel with its revolving
doors they’ll not use—for a doorman will open with
great somberness so they can disappear, anxious,
to ascend and commence their marathon to purity—
gazes back to his fare box, its bright numbers
now thundering louder than ever before.