Corona

For Ryan Priddle

A swell, a swell.

The ashes you might have left behind
when a bonfire slept in a belly on the bed,
are coming to a blood–swell,
summoning the rains
for a twisting of toes
in a garden somewhere,
to beatify one slug, two slugs,
the smooth resting place
where touch begins.

As it rises, this crossing of partners,
the air becomes big, plum–like,
sentiments raw, ready to be scorched,
to be renewed, to be muffled in earlobes,
it can only be wonderment,
a sucking in of shadows,
a place to return to
after gallivanting through the jungle,
after reviewing the cheetah with bare hands.

Where the peak locates itself
is impossible to tell, now listen
to the bells from a noumenal land,
now stop and be silent, you will find
some chasms sitting
with big hands and space
to hold all the glories that tick and rave
in a single cell, that tick and rave
in the jaundiced light
when you and i promise
to hold this swell stiffly
until morning’s next day,
until distance cannot manage itself
between the sun and corona,
and the shine must spell itself out,
must spill itself so that i
can say nothing of love’s
certainties but only speak of the
fierce bald corona
exploding around your pupils.