All I think about is air-
more and more aroused
by this word,
its greed for grabbing
two vowels for just three
letters. Over and over I write
A-I-R and sign my name
with gusts of love as if I can
seduce it back into me-
pure-like it was
years ago in the garden.
How we kissed and kissed-unself-consciously—
never running out of breath.
Now when we talk there’s too much
combustion-colorless poison
gas or clouds of thick odored
smoke hang over us.
I cough
up blood and dig into
the top of my head (Would any lover
ever think to kiss the sacred
tonsure?), tear at the dry and twisted
hairs so as to let
the infection out. Spasms in
my lungs have snapped
a rib. O Adam
how I constantly create you
in every new and lovely man. Eventually
each will turn his back to me
in bed for I have caught
the fever and the chill. I know
pollution has spoiled the soil,
but how I crave to inhale
the smell of the sick apples.
Notice how they stay so red!
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