Tim Botta
Three Poems
Science
Who was going to say science
mouth, when you lick ambrosia fromyour fingertips, and feline tongue
the ambrotype clean.Or else, sigh séance moth
shudder, and rub rubiesagainst me, electrical quiz
for lovers at the carnival.
Paranymph
We idle in blue dusk. You let
each ringtone go, and I’ve(three times we’ve said goodbye, kissed
goodbye that many times)a smoky look for the spherical
punk and his paranymphin the parking deck, violations of
your windshield.
Channel
Near the guillotine crew, the wax
aristocrat, thumbscrews, and gullof spikes, my voice in
this channel, yours in the other.Through a sordid hallway, the mouth of
a wooden pig, piledwith wergild, I’ll stroke
your stories.
