One-hundred and Twenty: Sky-watching

You make plans like surprise attacks.
They creep up on me like spies and
turn me indigo shades of indignant.
Apparently, my rights lie in my presence
or absence. Would it make a difference?

I watch the sky all the way there,
the stars scattered like freckles,
the milky moon, almost full.
You wonder why I hold
onto your shirt but don’t
you understand that I might trip?
I’m falling as it is and I’d like to
do it as gracefully as possible.

We arrive somewhere.
Somewhere where you warn
me against gargantuan guard dogs.
I am tequila-happy and stubborn;
I stick my hand through the gates.
I am licked more in one minutes
than you have ever licked me.

Inside we find the sky-watcher,
crouching in his puzzle-piece den,
speaking through music and tea,
and Brazilian herbs we guinea-pig.

This is the song I want to fuck you to.

Desire eclipsing grammar and it’s OK
because it’s true
though not for you.

I am declared goods,
I know this but
I wonder when
you’ll hold more
than my elbow
when we walk
down the street.

I wonder this without impatience.
Though surely you would be
impervious to that also.


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I drink, I laugh, I smoke, I write.

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