(no subject)

[burnunit]

Photo links to photoblog by Steven Saviro, obviously a fellow-traveler. I wonder if he knows this. No, he does. He does.

kept at each other, fingertips dug into thick flesh. Which reminds me of her? The hot breath and mad motives of the in and out? Or the obscene and full roundness of the moon, caught in tendrils of mangrove trees?

"You've never even seen a mangrove, probably not even in pictures."

"What. Do. You. Need?" she finally demanded.

Moved box after box into one place or another, but

"There's a place--" the Rust Man said. Opened his wallet full of midnights-at-the-city-limits, held up his fingers like a fan. Or the tendrils of mangrove trees. Or the long claws of a forest beast, some ursine thing hungry to split the thick bark of us, probe us for larvae, honey, memories.

I picture my hands, wrapped around thighs and buttocks, face at the level of a groin, my eyes obscene and full, mirrors of the roundness of the moon, caught in his eyes; hands on skin, hands amid the fine hairs of his thighs, hands curling upward into the sweet concavity of the small of his back. Fingers clenched into each other, podded together against the spine while I paused, breathed into the night, memorized the pattern of brickwork.

"The Market. We've all seen it, been there, stepped among the black cobbles and saleswomen."

"What do you want from it?" she asked.

"I want it shut down," the Rust Man said.

She cut him off, a chop of her long white fingers, and this time I thirsted, mouth hanging open, dog-like and panting for her two words, "The Market."

I nodded too,closed my mouth a moment, imagined those hairs, the smooth skin of his back, the warmth of our faces, the fierce strength of her arms, her spider-haired magnificence —

—the arrival of our bodies at the corner, timed to meet the women, eyes fixed to their wares the feel of the bridge a dull vibration in my stomach, groin, fingertips

O body. O motion. orbit us orbit us and ne'er drift, take our eyes off the sun, boil us into vapor and distill us clear. Stars! Come! Stars above us in our electric bed, empty our groins into each others' memories and spin our vehicles away drive away "wind die you die we die" tentacled memories of old men old women young bodies and vigorous rattlings at the fading hollow doors, sinking sands at the edge of the river