Like everyone’s been saying we are.
These muscles of metaphor
They loiter outside the skin’s side door
Look for trouble like they don’t know better.
The mosquito’s song-
A reprimand, shooed away,
You can’t just hang around here adoring me.
Slow burn of the wait
Soaked in sun
and a shop-awning’s-worth of shade
Scowl teeth wrapped in sugar cane
Go ahead, officer,
Tell me I can’t stay.
Limb kissing the lighting
Late night longing of conversation
Relentless pursuit of the clock’s alarm
Twenty minute layover in the Antwerp train station.
“You will love this”
Transfer between a pipe dream and a love song.
The boy who breathes jazz percussion
but don’t know a thing of swing.
Knees bruised by cobblestones,
And all his bending
Toward the begged question
Big love eyes always waitin’ on.
Mornings when the light sneaks in
I fixate on the long stretch of his windows.
His skin a fan of sandalwood.
The open. The perfume. The flutter.
The days with him when I wonder.
My night owl ways have gone,
My insomnia cure is pretending
To be where you are
(If it’s July twenty-fourteen in New York,
What time is is in Casablanca?)
And the moon-
Don’t get me started on her.