RISING FROM YOUR BOOK

“The silence rises from your book up to your heart.”

                  -Yves Bonnefoy

the silence of agraphia

the silence of facing the bastinado

the silence of the burghers of Badajoz

the silence of Cordova’s candent sky

the silence of Devereux’s demimonde

the silence of Achilles’ discomfiture

the silence of Cleopatra’s erubescence

the silence of feminine frottage

the silence of gorgonized prey

the silence of Huguenot hotching

the silence of the insalubrious leper’s kiss

the silence of a passing joule

the silence of Kawabata’s cold koan

the silence of lacustrine reflections at Yaddo

the silence of the long lost langouste

the silence of the millipede milieu

the silence of Rizal’s nummular yoyos

the silence of the scarlet flower of the ocotillo tree

the silence of Napoleon’s passible penis

the silence of a picosecond

the silence of a quaggy idea

the silence of several rebuses on the run

the silence of the Saracens at Roncesvalles

the silence of the sleeping Scaramouche

the silence of a wading smew

the silence of Santayana’s spinule

the silence of Telemachus’ taurine thighs

the silence of November’s umbra

the silence of Anne Boleyn’s unhallowed head

the silence of Fermat’s vinculums

the silence of wambling bees

the silence of Dali’s xanthous eruptions

the silence of a persuasive yoni

the silence of feasting zyzzzyva

TUMESCENT TALK

"Facetious flaneur" is what she called

me before the sting of agave thorns spoke

their merciless hellos on my good left cheek.

"Choking chutzpah!" I cried out to the bloke

walking his grandmama's starched knickers.

She's leaving me for a tumescent sestina

with extra fingers and a tongue that won't quit.

Bullocks to his repetitive balls! Not this book!