I want to feel the windowsills with your
eyelashes curled in every corner,
those little indigo wisps strung together like Christmas lights,
that lie still as they listen for the soft simmer
of street lamps stretching their backs
against wet asphalt,
I want to taste the crunching cursive
of India ink and the slippery contest
between hand and paper
flushed in the incandescent brine
of night and day,
Introduce me to the ghost who scrawls
your poems over all these dollar bills,
I want to meet the bandit who stamps your
thumbprints into the heartbeat of these brick giants,
Teach me to feel like electric coils
wrapped in spider webs around my heart,
the sensation of a million solar flares
running through stripped cables and
hot-wired to car bombs,
Wash me in these ginger-soaked dreams
of raspy, spray-painted shadows and matches
struck at the last second,
the instantaneous synthesis of energy and musing
spun from a runny drizzle of subatomic particles
swimming in the soup of space and time,
that delicate moment when hands become mirrors,
the final sucker-punch that sends you into a bubbling hysteria,       
leaving you gasping,
begging for more.