In the morning, I read your poetry
sprawled on the table paper mache.
Cut it open, rub it into my skin,
the guts and blood are jasmine oil
or motor oil still hot from the engine.
I put words like permanence under my tongue
to save for later, when I want to run hard
and bite the bit. There is greed
packed into this. Knowing someone
like you exists is a slap in the face, a tease,
an anchor around my feet
that I keep as a pet. Never
have I looked across the well
and seen someone on the other side,
waist over the edge, both arms reaching down,
just like me. That’s the moral,
the gun barrel, that’s
the knife handle in a nutshell.
What’s real is the hole
where the air has parted for your voice
like the crowd parts when they see a god.
If this is dying, let me do it twice a day.
With this greed comes the risk
of seeing what’s under
the water and drowning in it.