I excel at the construction of spirit limbs
At night, I do not need a head
(never the important part)
I prefer wind tunnel fingers,
vaporous arms over my waist,
zephyr breath against my neck.
The weight and shape of lovers vary
when the barometer drops,
when compressed air creates pressure
firm enough to lean back into,
when the humidity sinks,
it’s all welcome weight
pressing down on me.
And when the air is still and silent,
I concentrate on the rows
forming behind my eyes,
pixelated, pulsing squares that flow horizontal,
then red waves, then old television static,
always the same pattern, before I open,
see the ceiling, start the journey over.
Strange comfort, to be anchored by pulsations,
but how many stifled nights
have I fixed on that movement for company?
Those inner patterns,
strange comfort on windless nights,
leaves me sated just enough
to remain salt, partially dissolved
but still able to crumble commands
when the weather pattern changes:
Come here headless, lover,
I will take your remaining tonight.