club solstice

the air is not silent
it is hissing and it is
heavy and thin
like the memory of mothers’ milk
like the memory of cum
like the foredrop of arsenic or
godivas or
morning tobacco saving last
night from the
smell of burnt coffee and locker rooms
But mostly I see it
and it is a chunk of theater or
points of azumith exploding
or neurons from
inner space or
the attack of body displacement
or the nightswimmer silencing
the fall.

winter 1979