Dancing like Hieroglyphics, the Truth at Twenty-One Is Enough to Subdue Some with Its Metaphysics

Sweat dresses his neck
in sweetness, blesses it thick
with desire, drowns it in debt;

a pleated garden printing its prick
into his presence licks his chest
with the same felt his line-up

fits around his nape. Excoriate
sun scorching the trail breast-to-tip
makes its way ironically straight

to the Ouroboros esplanade
buffeting its lips around his waist,
belting superlatives just-to-taste.

A pretty mouth conceals an ocean;
petals pulled off stalks swimming inside
a mind opened like a president’s globe,

running red down a Dallas road
worldwide, blast assassinating passion
into dancing hieroglyphics

resurrecting secret missives
from the folds of the mysteries
between his thighs, speaking to his