An Object by Ezra Pound

This thing, that hath a code & not a core,
Hath set acquaintance where might be affections,
And nothing now
Disturbeth his reflections.

“Who said that time heals all wounds? It would be better to say that time heals everything except wounds. With time, the hurt of separation loses its real limits. With time, the desired body will soon disappear, and if the desiring body has already ceased to exist for the other, then what remains is a wound... disembodied.”

-Samura Koichi

You Mustn't Leave the Kids Unattended to

  Softer it runs closer to the pubesce A tuft escaped the trappings of your underwear then another as the first was felt. Your legs all but forgotten your knee feigned sleep, leaving the hips ajar & saying discreetly that "Oh yes it is permissible". I fancied the smooth rut not the deep furrow that has lended access to the unseen but that it being of the world of material it held for a moment empty-whole potential but made from it something familiar, something to be held. Fondling those loose curly cues others came out to play, but no I didn't venture in I found common ground I feel the new skin much like a healthy child a little pudgy (Yes I know you were born with dimples on your lower back) Your knee has made the common ground less dangerous & more inviting with your womb a plateau only slightly raised Your skin stretched & smoothed flat the bones of your torso are hinted of (& followed as outlines to a puzzle) just as your panties reveal the make of your soft underpinnings nestled there & emitting warmth for us kids -the radiator is enough to heat the whole house.
  And just as it was offered it was taken away You pretended wakefulness Your knee jolted pushing my hand -possibly- into what you had at first intended it to bequeath but that now it was a sort of vindictive retort of "That's what you could of had!" And yes I had chose otherwise but now with a little curiosity in retrospect which turned into regret of lost opportunities; I imagine with my hand in your panties you would have possibly stopped pretending sleep & rid my penis of its irksome underwear (having fully explored all their recesses) And once in your grip you would apply some pressure bowing it back toward me & letting up so as to redouble & pivoting it slowly around it's axis, skimming the surface but always maintaining control as though you were the pilot (on some game) of a plane that bore precious cargo of which you are gently bringing to the ground & maneuvering with refrain but poised to land as though on the softest pillow you wish to only leave one impression & this was to be your mark, a veritable signature of which you are proud. [With eyes closed your picture is taken Your skin concealed & thereby preserved]            
     

A Sort of Running Dialogue Between Friends

  You appeared to be rising, the shifting background would begin to impose enshrouding your upper half, leaving just one leg visible. Now at a glacial speed, now skipping a few moments & jumping ahead of itself. Your posture sustained the same face, you didn't seem to mind -through the wonder & perambulation of your viscera externalized- your environment acting on it's curiosity. From the start it liked to share in your breath, your inhalation as well as the pressure that bore no visible roots & was all surface: it's release of breath. The place where the two met regular enough to be taken for granted, but in your static pose both could relish the momentary touch. We could say, "Your habitat has really gone to some lengths to include you", but this would be a negligible response for it has always been that considerate.

Black Stone on a White Stone by Cesar Vallejo

I will die in Paris while it rains,
on a day which I already remember.
I will die in Paris--and I do not run away--
perhaps in the Autumn, on a Thursday, as it is
  today.

It will be a Thursday, because today,
the Thursday that I write these lines,
my bones feel the turn,
and never so much as today, in all my road,
have I seen myself alone.

Pt. 2

The stairs bowed
accepting my weight fully, even in their old age
foot fall after foot fall each more of a shuffle or a role like an old man heaves for breath,
  half bent over
each sounded their distinct timbre; I
didn't so much lean against the banister, as I used it as a balance
  while they where learning to be legs & feet
I lumbered as though on stilts either for the first time or that it maybe had been awhile
My right hand kept to itself hanging limply tossed this way or that, rolling fabric through fingers as prayer         beads or as a tutor correcting a pupil's posture, braces the the chest.
In the dark, speech & the light in my eyes demure: all I can do is feel.
Yes a drink of water is what I intend on but the wood is slick in socks
  & the stairs are endless, they bend & twist in to what?

Pt 1

With eyes open, dreams faint wisps
Role models in combination with familiar environmental decour
My heart slows with the coming day
Legs still at rest arms too: branching that haven't the inkling to extend
themselves, & what (?), into the sun.
I lay awake with no need for alarm
(The birds haven't come to my aid yet)
The window gives what is already inside; My imagination imparts the only definition 
there is: where there is naught, there suddenly is, and then again without reason
there is comfort (Hey!). Yes  things change
  with no word of affirmation nor objection
My stomach barks, how curious...the day before
  enacts the possibilities of today.

Amidst displaced mattress & covers, my throat is dry. I feel it is time to venture
from this carefully wrought mold
for it has done its job, given my form