Fro-Zen Pipes

Caught beneath a late Mexican sun
I should be halfway to some ecsatic
break in the action

blossoming like a bloody nose

              How long before your chosen mirror
              reflects that tender urgency
              & reluctance
                              where smoke meets desire
                              if only from her pale insistence
who whispers in a cardiovascular language
the kind of thing you hear only when you’re not
listening
              & any other voice responding
spoken, unspoken
                              hell, I don’t know

There’s something there that will never change

precariously altered by the telling