It’s a dire situation, telling you again
of a sheet disturbed by the wrinkle of our bodies,
and nights of locked stalls and a cunning touch
rough and sudden, the storm before the porch
in New Orleans, in New Jersey, our mouths
blooming into one another, our laughter like pollen.
Now you know a boy stood on a jade coast
looking across the short sea, begging to be pressed
into like a thumb consorting with the cheek
of a peach about to be bitten. I had to know
what dark structure in my heart you could collapse.
There’s a new story now. One of a dark canal lapping
at its boundaries, bodies lost in the park looking
for a pub where faces might still towards one another,
floorboards sharp against bare feet, a kindling streetlight
outside a window carved to frame passing phantoms,
dark blue eyelids open, irises like clocks counting
seconds before two pinkies hook,
a hand with touch so soft it
seems to speak,
and at dawn
a sky to send us home.