I drink continuously: milk from plastic gallon jugs.
I love to grab one when it’s almost full – haul up
its heaviness, pull at its volume with my lips
and mouth, then close my eyes and let its
cold voluptuous unconscionable prize course south –
smooth through my gullet. (Sublimities wake up
the soul, then lull it.) I supply myself with pleasures
all day long. I start with one (a Kalamata olive),
stumble stunned into another (pet a cat) –
proceed like that until I’ve found their source:
a strange forlorn unreasonable iridescent song,
which radiantly manifests – as face, as form –
from which each strand of the exquisite rises,
to which I can’t not belong. I respond by slipping
into sleep like silk. Then I go back to drinking milk.
.
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