The houses are under water.
There are two worlds here,
one the road trip, one the road,
but when the road turns to swamp
and the trees are swimming
I must swim out there, for awhile.
I’d give up every drop of wine
to never lose you.
Skin. Microscopically, it is shedding–
A pulsing pink desert with savage beasts
feeding off the dead, little raspberry
whiskers hanging off their teeth.
But on a flooded morning
your skin is a clean sheet
I wrap my arms and legs around.
Wait until the sun is thirty degrees below
the horizon and turn toward
your borrowed Mecca.
I forget to kneel at crosses, I forget
how her amniotic fluid feels on my skin.
I only remember your skin, and I
think that is not a sin.
When I’m away, fixing things,
I’ll forget your bedroom eyes just to remember
them, my biological counterpart.
