At the Half-Stove While You Slept, I Prepared a Meal for


Soledad and Tonatiuh and the handball in tow,
And the Redwood, recessed,
Silent at this milky hour where clouds
Confound skylines and schemata;
Rigor, rituals—awake, and the soy fussing
Over a meandering flame,
And I’ve stitched sink water into rustlings, into
Reckonings and eyes and

Jawlines affect temperamental dreamscapes
of island Life, where after fucking, we
lay exposed and new to one another along
crooked, oyster-cased shores
and nascent sands suggesting—accuracy,
irritabilities;

and rousing the fat root I venture, then, at
this sweltering hour of no sun and sparse
words to lure us tepidly into Patchworks and
piss and tufts of chest
hair and the moisture of
Your underarm and that majestic odor between
my thighs when you take me in your mouth
and the scars and The thought that I once
was your beautiful Mescan man—possibilities,
accuracies.