By eaa1118

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Less thought than teeth makes heaven tangible.

And any truth subject to a cut. For anything

The teeth sink into is real, fleshed idea.

You started, of course, with the usual style:

Idea steamed from the furnace of feeling

As hot emptiness feasting on things deferred.

Love, for instance, that should not kiss or coil

Arms round one another until heaven so says.

Looking at the sides for voices that approve

You felt your way around or through tenacities.

Secretive–and protective of what was not heard.

But one half-light the razor went against the grain.

You wondered if spirit could grimace at blood.

Or if it would smell, lotioned after shaved.

You rehankered for essence, for you thought you knew.

But as teeth without error the conclusion to bite,

What has no body can’t grow beards or bleed.

Love’s vampire’s reasoned for resisting death–

That’s what’s delayed as you searched for taste.

All essence the space that you fill between.

You are not deceived with what’s postponed in heaven–

It’s everywhere after all as an uncut map.

Love, your incisor, more than thought that holes it.