To Clutch Poem by Brian Arguello

What in you do my efforts fail to fill is a tomb of solid steel.
A lack of this.
A stunt of that.
On my back the burden of question and meager guess of answer,
Cancerous musings, twirling across his mind as a manic dancer.

What you feel is at the dropp of a hat.
A dropp of a guess.
As a prize it would be I,
Lest you persist such prudence and over-thoughtfulness.
Nights pass and I churn away like a mill — twist and writhe.
Contemplate and churn still at a sight of fantasy.
And although it seems, perhaps to you and he,
(the confidant spurting steam) a dream flavored sweet,
Marked by false hood,
Almost a nightmare.
Almost
Almost

In those drifting hours,
The hours of the drifting moon,
A calm visitor visits;
Sensual, mere sexual potential and a scant bit illicit.
Flesh erodes and time corrodes.
And in thought it still lingers
The taste of much
The gentle touch of a single finger
The angst to clutch at air
At pillow
At sheet
At fair dream
At fair beauty