to my friend

i.

like a worm I muscled into you

all five hearts bursting in me like valentine’s grenades;

your name was a drum that I played on my tongue

till my tongue knew its throb—

I’ve told you this before,

that there was never any luck for us;

we shaped one another like one shapes the air with his palms,

and like the cunning worm I moved through

the vulnerable holes in your skin—

but first you invited me in.

ii.

take me to the sea.

remember those skinny days we subsisted on citrus and coffee?

we’d sit for hours at the edge of the Pacific,

laid down like a table before us,

offering the meats of our future—

we’d eat them to survive.

are we living till we’re dead, or

constantly dying?

I don’t know if I’ve told you this before, but you

justified my time;

the itching minutes yawning into gape-mouthed

hours, the gasp of days—

talking shit with you in pretty circles

till we left each other cotton-mouthed—

relating to each other intangibly our own

loveliness, our cleverness,

our respective lack of integrity.

by speaking thus, we’d make it so,

turn pasty adjectives into exquisite monsters,

and our faces into terrible, beautiful masks.

iii.

like a worm I hollowed out the hallowed cavities

of myself.

filled up the spaces with you.

notes left in pen, oranges with faces,

clumps of cut hair, loose thread, tasteful colors,

bus tickets, champagne, the yellow walls, the chandelier,

the trampoline peering jealous at the moon,

and us like cowboy angels trying to rope her in

to ice our sweating cups.

stripping off our clothing finally we’d

plunge into the sea, god-blessing every sea serpent

and lingering in the Atlantic.

bound round our ankles seaweed,

slippery chains, and the tide,

our cause and pull.