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
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.
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