If every red-ripped ****** and perfect ***** meant something, they'd represent all.
The way the alcohol flows and the choreography of women under the night call.

If every smile smothered the defeat in her being,
she'd be less from a fogged mirror memory
and would be seeing
that I love her and the hurricane behind:
I still follow her into the flood,
follow her where bodies intertwine.

The wind whispers shouts and knee scrapes --
And there is something wrong with me
because I wonder of the way the world tapes
every traumatic second onto her hips
and lets it flow into her pale-palmed grip
that grasps my face and the hollow within;
the shallow shake of tomorrow's sin.

Her bed has a garden print,
but I close my eyes and hope
I stand in a Sun-bathed tomato patch,
waiting for the wind to whisk me away.