Slaps himself aware
From the cold soil of sulking
Hands placed over his red beating organ
Moving a compliment
Towards waiting mouth
A bruise goes away under aerosol snow
Sniffing his pointless meaning
Two legs sticking out of the window
Sex bug in head, twitching lips
Entered the house & warmed it
Like a homely loneliness
Carved into the paper dome
Before one more made a crowd
Trashy eyes so coherent
She was blue Band-Aid blush
His bibliomania noted
Sound recorder color
Yellow & white striped
Good quiet plastic black ink calm
Cups the lenses & frame
Lab pants hang above scuffed toe tips
At the back of the closet no reason
citrine ash #2
The sender packaged night-rust,
Red air & Styrofoam clouds from the mainland
I rest on a squeaky frameless twin bed
In a spiral castle near the mountain
Wattle fence: copied, cut & pasted around the perimeter
A skein of dust swells in the hollow room
The lining of my joy does burn
I know what I’ve been known to like
Imagine feeling the way a child feels
When a child sees the act of sex for the first time
I can’t make myself comprehend
An intimate miracle is God enough
Old stones keep rain from entering
& its corners cradle the dimensions of cobwebs
Lately, I’ve experienced a little daily nomadic hysteria
& few precious things that I want to think about
Terrell Jamal Terry’s poems have appeared in West Branch, The Volta, Memorious, Washington Square Review, Columbia Poetry Review, Green Mountains Review, cream city review, and elsewhere.