late night laundering

On the phone. Calling you,
late at night, the time is right.
I want you. Porcelain skin, muscle
tone with the grooves of Rome, and the
small of your back contains an apple
which my hand persistently tries to reach.
A beach. A place. A state. Montana? Nevada?
Meet me there. I have loved the stars, but I
swear, I love you more than I love the darkness.

Your starkness. The starch in a suit,
mute, laying on the floor. You said
that you used to want more. Love isn't lust,
but in either way, a must. I follow instincts
and you follow trust. Crust. On the apple pie.
I tossed a dime. Your mother said she couldn't
love her son if he was a fag. You packed your
bags. The flat was a stack of books and nooks
and you said that you wanted to be one of them.

This poem wasn't supposed to be another,
but my feelings are about to smother. I wanted
to fuck. You wanted to muck, muck around, this goddamn
town, get out of my brain, I don't want to hear
another sound. Poems go 'round and 'round.

I've found
a mound of
writings.

I was embarrassed.
I built a terrace. I'll
fuck you in a garden. You have
a veranda. When you're mad, you scream
"What about Amanda?" A candle. A sandal. Left
on the dinner table, under the dinner table, and
you say, "Love who you love. Doesn't matter if
you're gay."

Easy for you to say.
Good day!