The Mouth

Drop light, drop sound, drop the feeling in the hands.

Radiation there tastes off the point of a winding canal.
And tiny bumps on the surface pop up on a hot soft plain fallen below.
Along the rigid curve and back to the thing that gropes like the blind exerciser.

As wet and down through the same of the water cave
and to the supple, salt, full in body.
It's all around. Sucking the blood vessels awry to an erecting end.

It buries in and finds more across the dip near the cage that couldn't be,
sole the heart.

Nothing but a mouth. A mouth at search. At loss for words. Doing all else it can do as drips form along till a damning ridge
to the underground.

Laps trickling beside the throbbing inward faced kicking machines in rythe of the taster.

And inward on. Until inward gone
into something like its mate before, with its own beat and living contraction, and margarita in the glass,
that makes all the territory tremble.

So materialistic and efficient with no arms but this.

Who's that wondering the hall and turning the light?

Why see?
Why grope?
When everything is dropped but the pillow hugging lips and saliva on the tongue
and anchors on the teeth that bear into shore.