Desmond O'Brien

Look at me
I'm growing a beard.
It has white hair.
I'll soon be twenty-seven
and a thousand years
God I'd love
to hold hands with the sky
and make love to her
with my hairy chin
on her lips
and my tongue
in her mind
so that
we would think
that earth and clouds
were the same substance.
And her hands would follow me into death
and tickle me
across the universe
stroking my ribs
and moaning in my ear
telling me
with her fingers
that we will live


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