Wholeman and the Dirtyhot DreamQiana Towns
His she is only time, only a blues string—never a note. The poet and his odalisque make moons when they touch. The bodies are ovals; the minds are vegetation. The bodies are spinning. The minds are agave. Together they are incongruent. So, the poet returns to the page, no further from blues than from the moonshine in her cup, the moonlight at her flesh. It has been a year and time is still failing. In her dream his bare feet tramp as they do in waking; a dust storm whirls between their bodies. She extends her arms, offers her embrace to bind the living with the already lived. He arrives at the threshold only to turn back to watch the birth of moons or the passing of time, depending.
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