Hul 29, 2014

The trembling of these

fingers on the pool of your skin
our thrill, having smashed the megaphones with ball-peen hammers

one on each hand
how clear, even ripples as these from the calluses

conveying how it is to be young again, electrically
to what has never been crumpled, has only ever gazed upon

a liquor and mint boy acting broken. Precisely
knowing what to say only after having said it

forgetting the next moment, when consequence
rears its ugly head
or the pleasure of yours, your flesh-drop earlobes . . .

We practiced our swing on random bottles, hollow blocks
wanting them to be people in our past, or soon-to-be

wanting them to be lawyers, congressmen, the boring patients
of physicians long-winded and starched

why can't we be

let's walk in silence over faded reds, the yellowing
let's look forward to laughing about this on beds
hours apart, arms varnished on our chests

sweet iron kissing all four of our dimples.