We are forgetfulness when we kiss outside the house.
The raffish drink swells like myth: our mouth burned, like the house.
Try this hot falafel, from that Mediterranean corner.
Yeah, the fried bird was the shit, when the cousins came to the house.
The day quells, cavernous, in deep red, a wet‐tone.
Think not this perfect night, but a to‐do list, as you return to the house.
I need a kneading, and think of men.
I dream of choking on Big Bob’s mint in a sorority house.
We could fit through chambers of the beast’s briny heart. Beat into it. Taste the olive, the abyss, the dank house.
I stare and watch lovers live.
It’s television, the glass distance of the coffeehouse.
But to the cracked hills, one of us is drifting— Earth catches me in fits, but it’ll be my house.
Clear into the eternal I’ll be the wild, formless dancer— Never be sorry barefoot— we’ll miss leaving this bone‐house.
Balance on these white rocks, across this straight sea. Christ, I’m taken over by this, and born into a new house.