You, you, make love to me like you.
Like there are thistles beneath our skin
which crave each other only in the way
our neighborhood once craved cracked
summers and hopscotch and wet sidewalks.

                                                   You, you!
Make love to me like I’m not asking you to.
Like I am not drunk at this moment and like
this is not the only way I would talk to you.

(like I wouldn't stumble against your body
and forget every move your skin made come
morning and I'm starting to think it's
the sun which is jealous and not your old lover)
      Not after everything that’s happened

that would be foolish of me to say the most
of you, you I would want more
if we weren’t young and dumb and brilliant.
Watch me radiate.
                  I am your finger pricks,
your beautiful dick, don’t I glow so?

05/27/2007

Posted on 05/27/2007
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