(10)
Writing poetry is an unnatural act
— Elizabeth Bishop
Nothing kinky. Think cuddles: the collapse
of two into one, of that one into comfort:
the innocent–the long hug, the movie couch–
and the afterwards, coming back from bliss
where union is fully consummated by touch
skin to skin, hands measuring from shoulder
to hip the full depth of desire, while the eyes
meet in stillness, faces in perfect relaxation
lines vanishing, as if the secret of eternal youth
were both fountain and well, the rising up
and the lowering into, the perfect circle
of hot yang and cool yin embracing.
Desire does not fade with age; craves
what shaves away the weight of age.
Stop Reading Berryman’s Sonnets, Dammit
About Me
Mark Folse is a provincial diarist and aspiring minor poet from New Orleans. His past blogging adventures included the Katina/Federal Flood blog wetbankguide on blogspot.com which David Simon told NY Magazine was one of three blogs that helped inform Treme, and Toulouse Street–Odd Bits of Life in New Orleans, which once outranked the Doobie Brothers on Google Search. His work has appeared in The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature, The New Delta Review, Metazen, New Laurel Review, Ellipsis, What We Know: New Orleans as Home, Please Forward, The Maple Leaf Rag IV, and A Howling in the Wires (which he co-edited).
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Well Bottom Blues 
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