Chorizo and Clouds

This morning’s chorizo blackens, 

and these eyelids haven’t even slid open

enough to admonish the date--

In the shower, the milk has soured.

The soap hardens in the cold.

December isn’t too far off.

Fantastically, the steam lifts me 

to a world of clouds, 

wisps and tatters and heavenly shit, 

and I climax enthusiastically with images 

of you and a younger version of me 

trekking among these clouds, 

away from these splintery walls 

with holes pushed through, 

this hole in the unfinished floor that once 

nearly swallowed me and two dogs whole.  

At your seat, I’ve arranged a plate.  

Orange, now, from the egg.

The corn already has mixed itself in

crisply.  A long time ago, you would have

kissed me and smiled that half-curl of the mouth

you’re known for, then, 

put your hands up underneath the peel 

of my shirt to feel my heart 

before you ate.  I would have breathed 

confessional paragraphs into your neck.  

Yes, that was a long-ass  time ago, 

you’d likely say.