You are soft and painterly in my words
as the vector of a necessary fever.
Through the connecting wires, nightly,
I hum this low song of flesh and snow to you.
I don't believe in any message, really.
Can't you see the way snow leans against
fences at the edges of those long fields
and finally spills onto the highway, murderous?
Do you think you can hold life in a spoon?
Or desire? The sea is full of DNA.
The moon is full tonight, over the sea.
You are soft and painterly as snow
glowing over many highways tonight,
brilliant as death, skidding
as many paintings skid tonight.
The soft brush falls from the hand
at the center of the mind
and the skull is opened up
to the fullness of the moon,
to the fullness of interstellar space.
The DNA spills out and the hand
reaches across the shining road
to hold the last bits of conversation
it will ever know. The moon
would like to reach your body,
but it is without hands, desiring.