Plum Pit Speechless

ah, look at you.

you’re a plum pit to me,

a cratered seed of stability

amidst rotting flesh,

the nectar of bee stings

rolling off you

like water.

a fascinating crochet

of taj mahal-like masteries,

an inquiry

I’m dying to answer.

I own innumerable textbooks,

but they teach me nothing about you.

you’re a bachata of blush,

a shiver in the dog days of summer.

I want nothing but your words,

your kindest utterance…

your skull shaped like a birdbath,

cupped to hold secrets.

the disjointed Me,

peering through your windows,

aching to scratch your soul,

to suck the venom 

out of your snakebite.

your identity is in a wormhole somewhere,

locked in the paradoxes

of outer space.

which planet may I

retrieve it on?

whisperings of your desires,

I can only hear shreds of 

your heart,

mere beats in the scheme of

a rock-concert-slashout.

grimly hunched gravity

of the spine,

come to me

and tell me everything.

for once in documented

postmodernist history,

you’ve rendered a poet

completely speechless.