I promised to write a poem for every city in peru
the eager, the sleepy, the proud, the sooty. even cusco, rude and slow.
but there's nothing to say
having come back here twice, besides:
why, freed from home into endless space and time,
why why why we couldn't find someplace new to go?

I'm trying to write something that makes sense.
and growing frustrated at that.
which shouldn't be a surprise, but is, because I've
been looking for the same skin all night, in
old hills in new muscles, in
the way I probed the tones in Corey's back.
in the way I'm exhausted but can't sleep, shaking still.
in the way I stand in the shower thinking surely
if human warmth won't work hot water will.

then it's too quiet there too much like a tomb so
maybe outside.
maybe I'll go maybe I'll
look up at the sky maybe I'll write
how cusco's hills can be alive
despite such fickle fragile lights.
and how romantic, here, I know.
but the air sticks in the mouth, the throat
it tries.
and the throat is tied.
and the little lights are little coals.

reach for the tap.
try to turn the faucet back to cold.