Peter Johnson

Enigma of the Stigma, or Vice Versa

(for Genevieve)

I’m drawn to the ineffable, yet cathedrals leave me empty, the charismatic next door has no imagination, near misses of comets go unexplained by theories of emanation--all frauds, unsoiled neck braces piled in empty corners.
      But I trust the stem of this feather, its eye a spot on the pillow where she lays her head, her rump warming the hollow of my stomach, lilies sprouting from a book on her nightstand, a perfumed hair creasing my tongue.... Mysteries inviting both penetration and erasure.