Rain Song

We buy nice foods like fries
and this blackberry cider
in the shade of a sci-fi sun.
I want us to have every night
in the pit of our stomachs.
Two kids jumping
across leather couch cushions.
The solar system running sloppy
down the sides of your vest.
It is a mistake to write
about this. Opening peach tea
and sticking your nose in it.
I am hammered
with some whipped topping plus
my toenails are too long.
I go up the stairs
I go down on you.
Everybody loves food.
Fries and cheese and cider and tea
but I am lucky
I get to eat it too.
Lipstick on top
depression on bottom.
You tap your piano fingers
on the crotch of my jeans.
The taps sound like rain.
It is another rain song.

Valencia Oranges

Standing on tip toes
trying to get closer
to heaven or the red
underbelly of your
Southwest Airlines flight.
Down by the river
I unfurl a crusty towel
and spread my lunch.
It’s hot. Limbs feel uncorked.
Sending you a picture
of all the bright peels
coming apart from
the Valencia oranges.
Juice curls down my chin.
I just want to make things
and be okay. You send me
nudes from work and
my day is drowned.
I haven’t touched
the raw materials
you left in my apartment
but I placed them in front
of the old, scruffy radio. Leave it
turned on all day.
Last week I kept waking up
with Patti Smith songs and
flatlines stuck in my head.
I hope it means nothing.
I hope you can kiss
the fruit out
of a fool’s mouth.
I hope I am that fool.