Let’s assume an erotics
of language, our syn-
tax invested with corporeality,
comely substance that can prick
our senses, seduce, and make us
tingling-aware in the flesh:
not beer-bellied fingering
or courting the Barbified
of this or that genre—no big dos
and lipstick smears, the illusion
a push-up bra affords, but frisson;
not verbal sleaze, limp and pan-
dering, but logos well endowed.
The ancients knew that language
is not nude, but veiled
in fluted haute couture
where each phoneme’s a thread
sewn by cronish hands
into a fabric that’s pheromone
to the mind—which once aroused,
begins to unzip and strip
away the garment for its revelry.
The naked, ageless god then lies
before us, lit by psyche’s lamp.