I dream of this: a screen door, and
outside it, some hard thought, the threat
of what I want: male width and span
and neck and hands. Will you
describe the column of the world into a story,
and give me all that story, handsome flesh,
one muscled chapter at a time?
My every leaf of body spread
as if the world a table and you
prepared to eat: Who comes
to me in this four a.m. shade of beast?
I am undone for sleep, all hips and hollows,
hungers, my little pinks, swift flesh, and
while I imagine the screen swung wide
to this heart's ambition, while I imagine
his welcoming hurt and all bets off
how to accomplish the body's hard want?
The long hooks of the flesh, its blossoms,
its bad girl voice, all loyal to this vagrant stranger,
and mom said not to speak to him, but oh
