Architectures of Feeling

What kind of shape
      rises to meet your hands
groping in the dark; what 
glass body will yield its cool 

lips to yours
      so you can drink until 
your thirst is quenched. 
The spice drawer exhales, 

releasing the last 
     secrets your fingers 
sifted into a bowl.
When you close 

your eyes, atoms of water
     gather in the seams and flush
the walls with mossy color.
Somewhere in the depths

of a snail's curled shell, a cool
     blanket. You remember coiled
green fronds, the pop of sea-grapes 
so tiny against the roof of your mouth.  

Leave a Reply

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.