mind-body separation

my focus, my head
melted like bubble-gum
on a summer pavement, stuck,
fucked by the
catch in my throat,
of your breath,
the taunt of the air
insistent not in every instant,
but every now
and again
pregnant with your smell,
your curve and angle,
hair a curtain of redemption
drawing down, down
on what remains
to me of
myself, whispering
that this is not quite
what Descartes had in mind.