Issue 157, Winter 2000
Better give me something to smoke
If I'm going to love you, better
Take what once was so hard to give up
Back into the blood.
The lake where we meet must include a thick
Fog, as if the night held a whole
Pack in its lungs, then slowly exhaled
For the duration of this dream.
Your wife sleeps inside, the house
Mind keeping her warm.
Soft clicks, on ... off . .. on ...
Not a ripple to disturb
Her peace. We drift further, anchored
By her faithful window—
Square of light. Does she dream of you,
As tonight I will
Not, having sated myself on lips
That taste of char
With someone whom I touched and then
Did not want.
So starved for a friend, the most sexual
Thing I can do
Is to lay in your lap the weight
Of my head.