“Desire is absolute if the desiring being is
mortal and the Desired invisible.” Absolute,
and boundless because “it nourishes itself . .
. with its hunger.” Each touch is always
interrupted before the encounter. I am on my
knees in the dirt or in bed or on humid wood
floors. You are above me. I am under you.
Pendulous belly, wide leafed plume poppy,
dreamy cardinal, engines at work, at their
edges they harbor buh buh buh uselessness.
*
whose heads are plugged into glands, and
whose tails wave from our oily wells, whose
gift of faces buried in and eating from other
faces is the love of life
*
for me particularly
to be prone and filled up with vegetation
to have the same diseases that plants have
to be wearing a tasseled mask that is aroused by the sun
*
making a host
“all springtimes past”
buried in this face making this kind of piss
with everything: “a projected interior”
a vector that flowers
*
asleep
there it is ah
erupting again
two worms fighting in the dusk
chimes
are like a gland
that opens the lily
inside of the groaning statuary
heavy porous sleep
one circle of blue worms
I am easy to cut like a resin
I drink the plant’s piss
Philip Sorenson is the author of four collections of poetry: Of Embodies (Rescue Press, 2012), New Recordings (Another New Calligraphy, 2018), Solar Trauma (Rescue Press, 2018), and Work Is Hard Vore (Schism Neuronics, 2020). He teaches and lives in Chicago.