Song II

Words drip down your ankle,
they roll between your ribs like steam.
You are not a woman. You are a vessel.
You don't wash. You swallow me.
The word dissolves in warm water
and becomes imaginary flesh.
I no longer have a body, but I enfold you.
I drink your lucidity from the nape of your neck.
You let me pierce my sentences into your skin -
and you tremble, not from shame,
but from truth.
Today, philosophy is wet.
It no longer lives in libraries,
but in the slow trickle of foam down your hip.
And if Kant saw this -
he'd write with a trembling hand:
"The imperative is like her:
never to be used as a means.
Only as an end in herself -
and perhaps in foam, if it's Sunday."