Sometimes it's like Timothy -

Sometimes I catch myself talking to parking lots;
spaces of light and vast concrete,
spaces of no echo.
Or at times I notice the pectoral expansion of my breathing;
the swell of skin beneath fabric,
nipples hardening in the cold.
When counting the empty Diet Coke cans,
the gray cars passed in a day,
the upholstery shedding on the backs of my legs.
These times I find me in new places.
In erections outlined through denim, by fingers.
In pupils like
in the trees.
Under arms, where the smell of moss and bark grows.
Behind ears with the fur of Grover and pelts of ponies.
Over lips like the pressure of rain, bending things to the ground.

Then, like lichen, like monster fur, like sea grass under moving Georgia skies,
he affects my life.





GLS
2.3.92