Swimming with your eyes.
I see this blond wholeness of Summer
immersing romantically in bathrobe lawnmowers.
There's nowhere to move but movement.
There's lines like ribs across the.
Hair tied bracken suffocant and listless patrol–

I want to know what it is in Oly that
is pain (the proper nouns dispersing
sweat like angled grapes in a mauve tuft
of cunning (I dress in serpentine
religious)), that requires the big pills
that should not be taken with Hepatitus C
(the god of fire, discovered
in a net fucking the wife
as an anodyne for brutishness).

Would you be agog with the analogue?
My throatish gram bursting through
a swim in eyes replicant, obtuse,
as though trading mediocrity for
ecriture were literate. Every once
in a while objects sit on
the surface of breathing, and then
we speak of jellies beyond our bodies.

Once I called to you in all the misshapen
lameness of the ache of old pressures,
and you reassured me, fucking in the net.

=====

http://www.google.com/search?hl=en&ie=UTF8&oe=UTF8&q=Lewis+LaCook


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