Enlightenment’s swat team
shoves its way in takes command
secures the outpost tallies up
the phantom body count
whites out all its previous defeats
While you you wander off
grope beneath the trestles
and along the sewers eyes shut
fingers sensitized to cuts
abrasions fugitive graffiti
There’s no Rosetta Stone for this
your hand lingers and contorts
to reenact the lost inscribing gesture
knowing the movement is the
meaning not the mark
This manual mimicry sets off
a memory’s sharp spark
quick bright then dark
as the tunnel only encrypted flesh
remains livid with pulsing glyphs
Oneiric elders draw blood carve deep
with gems jackknives fingernails
they tattoo longing into hidden places
insinuate our most urgent intimacies
while the swat team smokes cigars
–Robert Gross