a d i d a s

I turn

and my asshole turns with me.

Away is

more conceptual than being here

with you. I want a surprise

party and I want equally

to be left alone to read

and finger myself.

The mouth goes dry.

The faucet listens.

The temperature is

regulated taking a pinch

from the vastness of air

for ourselves. Sweat

beads up, closer to

everything else than me.

I’m filled with a sudden envy,

and I imagine the suspense

light sustains, each moment of

the day across stretched across

the following moment’s transparency.

Humming skin hums against

humming skin, toward flopping

its shadow on away.

The deflating romances

of Michèle Bernstein, All the

King's Horses
and The Night,

are absorbed as resolute

pastiches, the unsound

disguised as sound and

wrung to drip a few

coins into the revolutionary coffers.

But when the dewy roses bloom

in the botanic garden

and quiet the season with their cologne,

they write this poem

for me, and I enjoy

the morning on this bench.

I have to be in the city

today, and my head will turn up

the sides of Houston Street.

Rimbaud's asshole, "Des ciels

gris de cristal" over

the music of Paris' bridges.

All Day I Dream:

ITC Avant Garde

floated on a wall of glass.

Ted Dodson is the author of An Orange (Pioneer Works / Wonder, 2021) and At The National Monument / Always Today (Pioneer Works, 2016). He works for BOMB, is an editor-at-large for Futurepoem, and is a former editor of The Poetry Project Newsletter.

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