Time Melts

as we melt—–
flesh to flesh being the spirit’s most endless zone.
How can I be this close without losing myself?
Miles of details arrive: geography & jobs,
calls & letters, yet still you are the screen close-up
at the back of my mouth. Yes, still we are the hourglass
in the inferno of passion, & glass walls expand,
& the sand never stops.

Such is the silk of our skin, as smooth, as fine.
Such is our rhythm: the merging, the re-forming
of evaporative air ’til all of my colors are water’s
condensation & you shape my every page,
a Song of Solomon welling, spreading
clean as distilled love can.

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A resident of NY, Stephen Mead is an Outsider multi-media artist and writer.  Since the 1990s he's been grateful to many editors for publishing his work in print zines and eventually online.  He is also grateful to have managed to keep various day jobs for the Health Insurance. In 2014 he began a webpage to gather various links to his published poetry in one place.
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