Gabriel Olearnik

There is a silhouette to the pressure of jeans
thigh and tight cloth. In darkness let me dwell
awhile. The comfortable bloom of night
heavy bedded here the growth of stone
cathedral lint. Arched catbacked ceiling
the snore of old grapes—love—
two bicycle racks, two men and one horse
the Temple. We were poor knights indeed.
Limestone mossed up in the glow of candles.
Grey chlorophyll. And the stale air of cellars.
There is a love which does not last
which wrestles with ladders
love which does not beget.
Sterile. Pleasure tight as hot springs.
pressed breath
which runs and stumbles
exhausted, it leaves nothing behind.
The tree bears no fruit
I have drilled holes in it
and now blood comes from the holes.