Jüp

bury my face in the desert
the rigid push back of denim.
black and born of Jupiter.
in it I find the smell of home
unlikely, unexpected.

the sweet lips of conspiracy
meet easily and are a part
as I feel my ribs in four dimensions.
as I find my thighs in the thickness.
strokes of internal grabbing
the raw scratch against my back.

a tawdry tarantula lives in my bloodtype.
strong and misleading
a truthful bitch
who pushes me off planets
and teases
frequently suggesting that I don't know how.

the firming age of a saguaro
sneaks into my vulnerable ground.

what a tiny root, an immature possibility.
what comes of this wildness?

some new found embodiment or a life?
lessons all the while the creosote is knocking at my nostrils.
inducing, attracting fear-laced allergic reactions.

buried under too much is a small light.
here is rounded out a den.
here sleeps a stone that once beat blood.
here, an opening.
here, this is
here, what is.
feeling.