Unspoken Tongues



Say, thousands of miles away beginning in a fly’s wing
a rare cataclysmic seizure reverberates in ripples
to ever widening waves, which by here harass a bird
into flight from its nest between planks of a neighbor’s
fence straight through your window.  Say, a whisper
combining the heat, the wind, the sound, and the flurry
of this bird’s fluttering, inflects an alarm.  Could be
a beat skipped in the heart, could be a gasp escaped
this dream no one but me is hearing or watching.



Polymorphous Perversity.  Unbridled psychedelia.
Anime brains and cartoon histories tucked away deep
in green suds of our cradle for creating.  Oily oranges
hatch free from magical mushrooms.  The underbelly
of your throat cuts to a kiss.  Formative skin tissue-soft
and more ripple-sensitive than the pond we stepped in
through blinding white falls of chaste-hot cataracts
into epic keyhole vistas of a room lasting several serial
lifetimes — all behind the silt patina of a glossy photo.



Beheld, behold!  Close and closer yet.  Eternal Flames
we smoldered to hide their smoke, not their sparks.
Their mergence.  The Living Memory Of.  Pointing to
the V-shaped fork where our inimitable beginning
began.  In vaginal orgasms some points made good. 
Their discreet series unspoken, the unstated untold,
conjured and kept unkempt at tongues’ distance.  How
did we know to shut up long enough for simultaneities
in our dreams to recur as accidental intimacies? 



--- Chris Custer