love is a doing word

like everything else, hunger is
just a sensation and I haven't been
for years; well enough to manage,
never let myself consider
having whatever it was: the hungered
after; the aftershock of realities
unmeasured but for straws, and china saucers,
sticking up in graves like coffee spoons,
java as thick as bayou
accents, and the sitar plays
on & on about oceans and eyes
and sinking. Then
I regather all my skipping stones
and more deftly send them out
across the water. the sky is
blond and the clouds are gray
the eastern crevice is more orange
than florida. I forget what name for
purple that is, the sky and the bruising
blessing of music hungering after
the hips to dancing, all the way into
morning, coming again and again
like a beckoning, an open window
into your mind, might, heart, mouth
the waking tasting, steinbeck's
chyrsanthemum prohibition, sensual
provocation; making mudras in my
sleep, I woke just for this,
a devoted reverence for all kinds
of things, but this kind of sunrise
will never make sense out of context.