Navigating a New Poverty

Talking about women as currency
leaves a great sense of poverty
jawing at the grates.

What is really mine anyway?

My body vibrates
to reverberations
of pitches clamoring
across the globe.

I've become unanchored.

Catch me

and whisper

nonsense
into my ear

before

I float away.

(I will probably fall for it
in my degenerative state.)

I will navigate to new seas
that echo light red to red
across her delicate skin.

Dusk and dawn elevate
the senses to her colors
and sensuous breezes.

The taste of an other's tongue
like a ballerina's figure
in a well-formed Chaînés turn.

Impoverished and slinking
behind the implied motions
on an improvised stage.

I tend to respond well
to questions crafted
by artisans accidentally.

Waging the wind and waves
with temperate patience
pulling a heavy tack.

Fragments unending, I
collect pieces
to live on.

My currency is words,
trailing thoughts
to die on.

And women touch me,
plunging me
into the moment

asking me to feel
the coarseness
of my edges.