For Shane MeyerEric Gelsinger
When I want a drink I want it In the root of my throat, the thick That goes up to the mouth, down from the tight chest-hole in the middle heart-black Below thick roots down teeth, into shoulders, My rib rack, the heavy within. Into biceps, in bottom vertebrae, my groin, and my hands. I can barely make a fist for it but I can't keep hands still for it. I need it in my nails. It fills the bone below my penis and above it, all the way back, to the second half of my first hole. When I want to go down on a woman I want it in a cave In my cheeks, in a mouth back of the mouth, like a throat — Under it and half-way back, in what was my stomach, once, The pre-extended me. But re-extended back into limbs, the hook between me and the world, back through world gills, like sharing light with women in a city restaurant, back turned from the window between us. That's how I want it.
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