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.