The time has come for you to lip sync

By | 1 February 2020

Here you are – pulling another foal out of the Ice Age
as the moon files its tongue down to a shimmer. A frog

with a third eye leaps off a white plate & I can still smell
you on my fingers. We sit in the briny shallows with the bony

fish watching icebergs crack and calve with the spontaneity
of my mother’s spine. We have tipped sunlight into a kiln

& are left here grinding pearls & fighting over definitions
of tolerable risk. I open your freezer & take out one

of David Hammon’s Bliz-aard balls that you bought
from his performance rug on the corner of Cooper Square & Astor Place.

I hold up one palm-rolled compression of snow for you to see.
We remember what it felt like to arrange dancers

& sit bare chested in the dirty rain.

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