…
A balmy July
eventide,
and you
clench my
cold
clamlike
palm
as cedar
shingles
harden,
like
festered
knuckles
of Saturday
old man José
At times, I
wish for
you, to
holler,
‘Black sesame rolls and pork intestine!’
pass by my
graying
windowpane,
dragging
aquamarine
carts, and
fatherly
smiles,
eaten by
kelp and
grease stain
Days of
tiny
lotuscups
plump
shrimp puddings
tiger-striped
blue snail
shells
you’d
spare out
of carts
and I’d
await, like
gardenias
your
mothballed
feet, at
weekdays
I want you to
somehow
notice
three ruddy
vertical
slits
I almost
adore, on
my left
wrist
and an
interlude,
after
almost
With my
cold
clamlike
palm, in
yours, and
my
almost
sterling
girlhood,
spreadeagled
like lozenged
strawberries,
and your
Penthouse
lingerie,
fantasies
we glimpse
the season’s
last
meteorite
pinning
our ridiculous
hopes,
on that
suicidal
seraph of
ashes
