Will Baker




Where by beast into a desert

We found Venus in the shallows 
off a dune coast, and in our own ways: 

I lay naked before her; differently naked, my skin sugar
sifting through antillian tessellations of sand,
and yearned to swell in the waters around her,
and loll fat against her breast. She may
allow this. 

For a moment, I slept, and I thought I
opened my eyes to her lips closing,
but the wind beat feathers over my ears
and sang through the spine of the book that rested split and dreamily half-remembered over my chest
and wild cats and their mothers mewled
and none of the nothing that shifted and valleyed
for miles around me seemed to've heard

anything. I grew restless, so rose and sprinted until I was bounding
along soft ridges and into the dimensionless scalloping between them.
The breaths I held between leap and sink 
and the cool air through the creases of my thighs
and how I hoped I glowed, 
another white thing in the purchase of night. 

I stumbled over her brother, who lay indifferently naked before her;
who bade me settle and watch
him empty his quiver of sons into the sea
and put berber cash bets on which'd live the longest,
so we watched,
we stones underfoot merchants' paths,
their rich young deaths and rich old deaths; rich only deaths
and how deserved, for they,
a phosphor array, eons in utero.

In a net of sand, I caught a kiddish fever
and cut the net that it poured over me and I again 
made bad sleep that carved
nautilus into the knoll and swept over her brother's 
first several steps to some sonorous
inland. And returned to before her, and in a feigned delirium spoke
to her about the seraph essences of a future me.

She may allow this,

— 2012