--ONE OF US IS DRINKING FOR THE FUN, ONE OF US IS DRINKING TO GET DRUNK

As You Sleep

Waves of light

flicker behind

your eyelids like a

pulse or jagged tremor,

baking there

as you sleep,

dream-walking somewhere

no one exactly knows.

I watch a swath of

sunlight tickle

your cheek through

the fickle window,

and at once I’m jealous,

I’m actually

fucking jealous,

of the way you respond,

how you shift and

buck and flare those

recessed dimples

as if you’re being touched

where I once touched you.

Oh, god, really?

You cannot be serious.

You’ve actually made me

jealous of everything,

even the sun,

a simple sheath of it

hitting your skin.

So, for now, I’ll just

watch you,

my face pressed

against the window,

like a boy seeing

his first nude in the flesh.

I’ll suck down the drool.

I’ll cross two

sets of fingers and

hold them behind

my back like

a crippled prayer

the desperate employ,

squeezing tight,

begging for mercy,

or grace,

or anything

you might possibly

give me.

  

--HERE’S TO THE HEARTS THAT YOU DON’T BREAK

The sparrows are desperate to know if I can keep a secret, wondering if I can find a different dozen ways to kill myself, reminding me any dirty blade will do, any lopsided jump off a high place, a hundred soapy pills, or just one fit and bitter enough.  And those sparrows?  Their wings should be broken by now, as is my trust in fate, the golden rod reel I thought I saw from afar only to realize I’m a blind rock, the one the waves lash and lash, beating my dull bones into bland salt and sand.  But next year, after my death and resurrection, I’ll return to you as the smallest of birds, hovering imperceptibly by your bedroom window, unbroken wings thrashing against the glass like rain that can’t stop itself from falling, hot tears sluicing against your golden skin.

  

--I’M NOT SURE ALL THESE PEOPLE UNDERSTAND. 

Patience

Patient,

in boyish wonder,

I spend all night

into morning

circling the slow

wheel of your

nipple,

left one,

above my

blurry eye

now spying

another eye

that sees me as I am,

rotten and unlovable,

yet loving me

as no one else does

or ever can. 

I follow the aureole’s

shallow path,

like a lost child,

into the swollen sea,

as if it’s a

compass

I desperately need

to grasp and trust,

to live on for

one more day

and not be

driftwood again. 

I watch your

puckered skin

contract and redact

its parched history

without me in it,

forming the perfect

target for my mouth,

fingers and tongue,

bidding me assurance,

glistening like

dappled waves,

whispering as the conspired

white doves do,

Come here,

Silly boy. 

Come home,

for once,

where you belong.