1450

I’m at your door.

Farmer’s son.

I’m carrying flowers

all black with church bells

cowbells around my neck.

I think you tell me

I love you.

I fall out my mouth.

All of a sudden

I’m okay.

Your thighs are like

holy canyons.

I burn all my holy books

sage and cinnamon

at the altar.

My life

looks like a paper crane

asleep and naked

asleep asleep in your hands.

At a bar

looked like a barn

I laid prostrate

my belly open

full of jewels and beer

and she held me so close

that secret

spilled onto the floor

in a mess of moonlight

scattered and dull.

For her

the times

we were too drunk to fuck

and just laid like

lawn clippings atop the other.

I was a holy book and kindling.

I burned like a thousand suns.

My list ended at her

sucking my tongue

working my lips

like I was a stubborn hydrant

beset by greasy hands

hot hands

hot touch

hot dream.

Hold me while the horns go