Nada Gordon

from ANIME
 

To meet in
a shaft that

seems to
have history

or expands
to stares unless

the rejection opens
a window—
 
 

A thigh would
change the

shape of sleep,
first burning the

head, later heart.
What had been

ropes
formed tentacles.
 
 

To be sought
not on form.

Reeling it in from
the net or post.

The wind in the
leaves. But I love

the small toes,
gravitations.
 
 

A squire
above my

mound clasps
such as we

have in this
misprint.

I see a
goddess one.
 
 
 
 
 

It is slowing
between (rebus).

Part of me
will actually

kiss this
music.

A froth of
windless snail.
 
 

A body gone
for three months

& image &
memory (memory)

will draw the
breath that

maintains a
calendar
 
 

I lost the line
from the

writing. &
your figure over

my other
thinking. This

on a Monday,
epidural.
 
 

Starved for an
other

in my think-
ing. Yet I

won't repose
under statues

most likely stunned,
face down.
 
 

Is it a muse
or a person,

a girl, in lines
she sounds

dolorous, then
someone far in

a city
at a window.
 
 

The seed poured
down the valley

& it met
against lions

budding; it made
it make the

low sound. I
woke, hooted.
 
 
 
 
 
 

I can't hear
thru the strain

so let it
be flirting—

tho there is
a voice, electron-

ically echoing
in frustration.
 
 

They built
a connective

tissue of
raw origin

& agree on
its promise

to enter the
wished land.
 
 

I wrought
this poem as

a house you know
it was phones

and seems scarcely
nervous

yes &
yes living there.
 
 

The real voyage
is fire

than the mother
I saw him

cropped, he
breathed, like

a sigh, and then
picked me up.
 
 

Needs slashed
—with the mind

& newspapers
on the ground blown

in eerie lovemaking
noise. The

two happening in
space actually together.
 
 

I'll lose & yearn,
grow exact

fears, develop
molesight. Fit

your face, a
night angel,

it's because
we want it.
 
 

Aching,
life

& bright
winds out

from the new
guy with

a clown on
it, slender (sender).
 
 

I wanted
other hand,

the dream
word, not

a familiar.
The dream

lover's head
a field
 
 

He writes to pro-
pose. The wafting

bauble of days.
Seeing another

writing for other
to propose. Daze

at seeing the
moment she writes.
 
 

Hard-on as a
thing

that my
heart

pumping,
I fly to,

again to
raise my legs
 
 

World fills
with rhyme,

the bed
lucks out.

I made him
from mots in

my living
womb.
 
 
 
 
 

Poet of the
moan

but to smooth
my sight by

some grin like
a dart, wall

glowing in
mindlight.
 
 

Would I leave
the country

through the tea/
straw of

such collusion,
the gift of

his besotted
stare and all
 
 

What delights
me is flowing

excitability.
Future determines

what I
needed in the

past, stopping
to break lines.
 
 

Form a trough
in forehead

planning/
traversing

these little
stanzas which

grow into
a wheedle.
 
 

I danced
upon the

faces in the
keyboard where

we couldn't speak—to
lose this sleep

having realized
what my face is.
 
 

She tried her dia-
dem on with spit

but flitting across
to her it was up

astounded and
flirting to a groove

rage I felt just
this enchantment.
 
 
 
 
 

Some will
vibrates

down the
medulla:

FOOD
LOVE

EVERYTHING
PLEASE
 
 

The drooling of
morning, of

what there is
to be laundered.

The microcosm
a go-go

causing to
burn my hair.
 
 

To be gorgeous
& strong

(he wrote)
to love

a sound. The
newer mi-

gration, the
face foundation.
 
 

Yes, a lack
of matur-

ation . . . "a high
sound beyond

which fish can
become song."

A new mistress
waiting for smell.
 
 

I note that it's
a form of peony

then, the diversion:
foreign lands; build-

up of languge;
trading lives, cracking

up the new boy's mood,
grip his smooth eggs.
 
 

We notice, oh
in this book in-

stead of her not
thinking about

him, then she
could blow out

& be fuseless
& be here.
 
 

To drink the look
& twinkle,

to seep in
there along with

the stare of
attention, fanning

there, the two
minds that gaze.
 
 

Visions of a
false "beast"

as looking to
a false furor

like redlessness
into scarlet being

not here you're
still here.
 
 

How poseless
you alone

let me yield
such verses as

caravan,
me blocked

to soften as
the clock ticked.
 
 

I thought of
the dark

matter, how
the connection

lasts and then
to go where

& stay
as selves.
 
 

My finger en-
tranced from

groin to
your book.

It drew a
desire-

form on
real time.
 
 

Not a quiet
space but a lush

one—where we
could follow where

the pure blisses
hum. So to make

... homeness, change.
Kind of alarming.
 
 

The next bas-
ic learning

is of need
where our notes

—have left you
—have left me

gushing from
tune to tune.
 
 

To write a
poem on the

back of
the lover, on

the lover
I never smelled.

The lover who
sent the poem.
 

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