In my graduation t-shirt,
and it fits right,
she finger-and-thumbs
the switch on my desk lamp.
Lights on.
And I'm getting too thin.
It shouldn't fit right.
"No, no. I want it dark," I say.

"Tell me what's off limits."

Her eyes, big and wet with bongwater,
wash over me. I'm pebble. I'm allowed.

"Why?"

"I want to know what's off limits
so I know where to set my goals."

I believe in love, even at first sight.
Just not the eternal kind. And I love
her when she says things like that
because I created her. And when
you create, and the creation reaches
perfection, all you want to do--
destroy. Hammer to head. Crowbar
to Parkinson thighs. What's off limits?
What's off limits? What's off limits?
I can't stop.

Before I respond,
with adolescent delight
she tears me open by the pearl snap.
She lifts her arms up.
Surrender? No. She's a sycamore.
I'm the wind.

Body bare and body scattered,
congregate at the inosculation
of her trunks. She's a sycamore.
I'm the wind.

Wavering.
Leafless.
***-addled.
And the breeze doesn't do it.
And the seasons don't affect it.
Gale force insanity.

I climb her branches.
Beard wet with her.
She wipes her off.

I climb her branches.
I can't stop.

Grows into me.
Trunks entrap.
Elevated, she.
And I, well, I

stumble.

Hit the wall.
Concrete, everything.
I press her against it
so hard, she turns to waste
and passes through.
I press her against it
so hard, I can't stop.

Autumn acorn fingertips,
a river emptying to ocean,
and she asks,"Is this off limits?"
as she turns me sharply
and my back collides with the wall.
"Is this off limits?" she asks as she
pounds her head into mine.
"Is this off limits?" she asks as she
claws my face.
"Is this off limits?" she asks as she
licks to heal.
My will says yes.
My flesh says no.

I can't stop.