I want to lick someone
with an antelope for a head.
A whole-person-boxer for a fist.
Circulatory, fruited over
nostalgia to overcome me like
a truck I'll drive over his body
while he reaches for a
telephonic breast. The way gods
do when they create
the first animal cracker
steams of existence.
Fat plant and vernix.
The shattered cursive equations
my love was capable of.
I said there will never be a night like this
How is it I was right?
How fibrous and incidental it seems.
The tiny leather jackets we wore.
What was it about that quality that I admired?
Loping around like a christening pole-cat.