Before you, The sun and the moon were paper-thin plates
Way to go, Monica.
Way to go, Esme.
Way to go, Ben.
Way to go, reader.
Way to go.
You can feel the teeth of this one. Enjoy.
Rime Riche – Monica Ferrell
You need me like ice needs the mountain
On which it breeds. Like print needs the page.
You move in me like the tongue in a mouth,
Like wind in the leaves of summer trees,
Gust-fists, hollow except for movement and desire
Which is movement. You taste me the way the claws
Of a pigeon taste that window-ledge on which it sits,
The way water tastes rust in the pipes it shuttles through
Beneath a city, unfolding and luminous with industry.
Before you, the table of elements
Was lacking, and I as a noble gas floated
Free of attachment. Before you,
The sun and the moon were paper-thin plates
Some machinist at his desk merely clicked into place.