IS IT GONE?
I DON’T KNOW. I CAN’T TELL.
I’LL STAY UP HERE ALL NIGHT. I MEAN IT.
I’LL LIVE HERE. I WILL MAKE A HOME RIGHT WHERE I’M STANDING.
EVERY TIME THE GRASS MOVES I THROW UP A LITTLE.
I THINK I’M CRYING RIGHT NOW.
I’M NEVER GOING BACK DOWN THERE.
I’M FINE FOREVER, RIGHT WHERE I’M AT.
sweet bucking bronco hips
the thunder of bones against bones
oh you are
covered in the juices from an orange
sticky and just sweet enough
i want to kiss your succulent lips
what a fine ambrosial treat
like a finely candied apple
or the deer, having been caught by the hunter
i want to twist the peels
and ignite the zest
a burst of flame in the dark
i am the flesh of your orange
wrapped in your dark rimmed eyes
you are the aesthetic, the wasp, the ranger
i am yours for the taking
unravel me and leave the piles on the desk
peel me down and devour me
hungry like men maddened by nymphs
(although i see your grecian horns, you’re a faun-escent,
replacing your woods with farms)
a bacchanalian romp in our forest
i would pack only white wine
and dozens of oranges
we would set the night on fire
with orange peel firecrackers
and be like dragons
hidden and content