Of What is Real

I like to lie with you wordless
on black cloud rooft beach
in late june 5 o’clock tempest
on clump weed bed with sand
fitting your contours like tailor made

and I like to wash my summer brown face
in north cold hudson rapids
with octagon soap
knees niched in steamy rocks
where last night’s frog stared
at our buddhist sleep

but most of all I like to see
the morning happen . . .

I like to go down vertical mountains
where lanny goshkitch
meditated
crashing poplars
sap sticky arms flailing
as thermosed green tea
anoints sneakers
and blood soakt brow I taste and love
myself a split second

and I like to feel my own full scrotum
as I horizon the whole crisp linen earth
in my beatitude waiting miguel-like
in maskt fantasy for christ-like
you—
whoever you are

but most of all I like to see
the morning happen . . .

I like to look at books howl
haikus of the seasons
of the mind
that I might know the knowing
and the simplest to think of all of us
taking turns at catching each other
in the rye

and I like to taste cold absinthe
on hot hung sunday mornings
discussing orgies symposiums
and sounds with hoary headed poets
in upstairs jazz club
in Japan

but most of all I like to see
the morning happen when k and ike still sleep
and only the denver night riders hum contrasts
to orient jazzy feather beasts
in the dewy garden of real earth
where I can sink my naked feet
cool

--Richard Tagett