Ovals

i.

We creep up softly to the monte obscured by

Flores Street and freeways.

Urban comets whiz above.  Taillights 

and the spectacle of a Tower watching out 

for us.  

ii.

I could change shit for you.

Stay.  Dig the meaty parts of your calves 

Into my shoulder blades.  Sigh.  

Press your feet into my throat.  I could make

Ovals in the sod.  Endlessly.  Irrevocable

impressions, tattoos and toes.

iii.

I could make it so that you’re the only one.

Could conjure an arroyo to make mud that

will mask our tire troughs and raise the

earth-scent.  The 10 has torn hapless gaps 

into this photograph: 

atop my bike, this colchón and my

Southside longing.