H e a r t S o n s & H e a r t D a u g h t e r s of A l l e n G i n s b e r g

N a p a l m H e a l t h S p a : R e p o r t 2 0 1 4 : A r c h i v e s E d i t i o n

THOMAS R. PETERS, Jr.

XXVII

The nudes are tan & simple all with two hands

Lisa, your terrestrial beauty, minimal, transparent

your lines like moonrays, forgetting tomorrow

the nudes delegating power as naked as trigonometry.

The nudes are errant pinballs on the Cuban Beach

redder than interstellar Pontiacs or chicken wings

the nudes are as enormous as Armadillos

and can barely understand English or anything.

The nudes are pekid and lack understanding of the moon

curved, futile, like rose bushes nearly dying

we met in our subterranean parking garage

or this large tunnel more tragic than yesterday

we are visited page after page by the holy

hands of tomorrow’s nakedness.

My heart, I love your timing like an A bomb

My love, you’re as malarranged as the future

My love, I love your obscure clarity.