Glass Poetry Press

Volume Two Issue One

Michael Kocinski

In the Still of the Night

I am stepping off the back porch, naked, moon-white, fully awake in the dew cold grass; cock hard, startled, growing out of thatch, a flowering branch just there; uncommon flora supported by my body and blood, blossoming, blossoming nightly whether I sleep or wander the maple tree darkness beyond the sliding glass door. Creatures here call out to me: katydids and crickets, their big fuck songs resounding: "Pleasure, Pleasure." Such bawdy lust in the tree tops and garden shadows. Tonight, I come out here, and shout when I come under the stars, and shout and shout, and run into the dark green wilderness, milky in the moonlight; milky, this jism petalling the leaf litter, my thighs, the sky hung so low; my clenched hand be-pearled, be-blossomed, the wilderness I run into be-decked with strange new flowers gleaming. Oh! I shout and join the other animals, concupiscient in the dangerous moonlight, lurching into darkness, coming out alight, echoing in the tree-filled darkness, in the starfull night: "Pleasure, pleasure"