The Point

The word not available to the mouth

is the word you need, the one you want

to crutch beneath your armpits 

and lean into, sucking a purple little hickey

from it's neck and driving its dirty adolescent 

imagination off a cliff. Way down in the valley,

crashed and mushed in the pines, my steady

wet dreams of love, of understanding, of

communication seem to be deep

within this pretty girls jeans. My fingers

keep crawling in that direction, inching

always with a simple destination. We all

have been there before and we are always

coming back with the same dumb flowers.