we tried to write

bodies

but they only

smoked out

into dry curses, 
no

wetness,

blood or

meat

like this.  
i nurse sorrow

behind my teeth,

until it

turns

hot –
we could be

forgotten, imagine –
no trace or

scent of sex,

i chew on

blue

relics
(when

what i

want

is you,

slowly –
when

what i

want

is to be drawn

down low). 
here:

we wash ourselves 
in midnight gardens,

this green

dark,

knees in the

dirt
you were

touching me

a fat dogged

love

on my tongue
in a place

where

you might have

trapped a star

in your mouth
but you had lost

the taste for reaching out
so

we stayed red

and close together

licking pink salt off of

fingers
soft mirrors that fall from

thighs
this would be enough

to cut me loose.