When our foreheads dream
of orange juice on weekends,
I knot most impolitely.
In lowercase I ask to be raised up.
The moons aren’t what they seem.
They seem like moons, or inedible melons,
or naked lamps, indecently shadeless
for all to see, things complicating in the heat.
When my polished palms
devour the smoothness of yr legs, I express it:
“Digressing together is the whole good thing.”
Then the mirror turns away my bad luck.
A plant feeds me & I forget to die.
In this most handsome season,
I untwist between mirrors,
accounting for all the loss.
Days grow weightlesser,
a privacy so lonely it’s unfinished.
It’s like syntax. No, starfruit.
Or what the satyrs said.
How fixation is a trench,
as good as agency,
as tough as blanket hems.