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To Patrick Porter's previous piece

12th Street

Someday we will turn to dust and
Breeze away in gushing bursts
But I'll still feel your licking touch
Like a hollow breeze over waiting waters

I'll wait for you like a late resurrection
And need you like a grim transplant
I'll want for you during times of ceaseless being
And sleep with one eye toward those times beyond grasp

I'll still shrug guilty revelations of
Nights when we toiled ceaselessly
And merged together in wriggling streams
Toward the endless oceans of you and me

I'll still huddle in sanctuaries
That only your shadow could project
I'll still bunch myself into the lenient angles
That only your warm body could compliment

I'll still lean against silent light posts
Waiting for your body to gait smoothly past
Remember that love was born to wilt
But remembrances were meant to last

Whatever finger runs over you
Whatever lip moistens you
Whatever eye harkens you
Whatever body christens you

Whatever breath tickles you
Whatever tongue tastes you
Whatever leg blockades you
Whatever arm cradles you

I'm still wrapped around you, firmly and finally
The original layer you can ignore
But can never digest into completion
The indelibility of the before

Remember?

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