Aquamanile in the Form of Phyllis and Aristotle

Consider also desired
things. The currant
in the navel under
my long robe.

A split in the lip
yields its hard red ball
the one in the tip
of a pen and as sore.
Rough and parted.

Coccyx pressing
spine in sidesaddle
I span head to tail
scratching circles
on the scalp to roil.

A small machine
a sphere in the corner
of the room
makes noise’s noise.
Swamps the sticking
swish of release.
Is knowing.

You are here
to carry—pour.