Adam Fitzgerald

(12/30/1983 / Staten Island, New York)


A leaf is scrolling in the dumb verb
of your scalp, the matted junk
of your hair, where the flat strands
that glue together fold aside
some dull gell slick in stale water.

A leaf, one of my poems for you
to roll and smoke with pouty lips
up your slender ass, is coming
down from across your crushed opiate
brow, a devouring mouth caressing

your cheek, which dry now, was
watering once, hungry sobbing tears
that would slurp and slake themselves
as quick as angels at the foot of holy
graves or sleeping infant breasts.

Does your cheek remember more
than you, —how its clear honey,
bright and lusty as stuffed-pollen stems,
ran its gorgeous muck and hauled
some pity for a boy crying like the night?

Your cheek a pregnant flower.
Your cheek a hand, pride-cold
and alone. Where's the memory then
of that fierce milk your eye strummed
across soft cinammon apple bones?

And lowering around the plate of your
upperlip, stale and stinking with fear
and nervous red streaks that balked off
and unchalked your broke-statue gaze,
where is there one bit to pit against thirst?

The pure dropp which like a buddha shits
peacefully in the huddled-forest dusk,
as orange suns massacre mountainpeaks
and drench everything in a cold light
until lakes murmur blue envious dreams.

Crumpled tobacco leaves of your mouth
which swim off in smoke like rusty stripes
of a brilliant brown trout, long after the rotting
half-carcass capsizes like a kiss, a smudge
of rose on the handle of a bathroom sink.

May my poem excrete and caress you still,
as much white ink as you have given bitter
to my gums, massaging your drowsy fists
and clinging within your polluted heart-lips,
as long as your indifference enamels it

until one day, smuggled away, it crutches
like a drunken monk to lilac and underbrush
who, thinking of his thousand ancient rivers
while lying in the nestling gossip of vegetation,
will grab himself and seize a bit of God.

Submitted: Wednesday, February 15, 2006

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