By Lucia Llano
(how much longer until i can touch you?
i’m tired of kissing telephone lines.)
–two lovers–
on a telephone wire, slender
,but, not quite birds.
tightrope feet blistered and tired
red solo string-phone distorts e very
ot her word. robin-egg figurines
on an electric cross
snorting each other in,
they’d be on their knees
too, if they could
do it without falling
off. faces none, bodies bloated,
blurry skin rippling in the breeze.
waning into each other, a space of hunger
in the inches between there’s
a whisper strung
there. by the neck. parched and
insatiated inches cough up miles, numbers on speed-dial,
making love (: a pixel screen).
their guts are swollen with nothing
but
hot air, it’s complicated.
close cannot be close enough
eat each other
whole
or
share some skin
or
something.
maybe,
sink.
into each other,
slowly, just
like crack l
ing
trees. like
when a sound shakes through
a forest but.
it never happened.
no one heard a thing.
her hands will fall off
just to touch him
here
& here
& here
&here (too.)
meanwhile
the telephone wire
(all wet with root rot inside)
gropes
its way from the sky,
bends& splinters
strains& upends
itself entirely
all, just,
to
touch the earth.
Hothouse 