as summerdays melt into weeks
it seems that each are measured in
cans; thread once needled
clung as a plea for someone
to see and to touch. please
see me and
touch me,
smile with something deeper than eyes,
see deeper than dashmarked skin.
if you want me to, i’ll get sick.
pluck all the hairs and threads,
remember the things i drink and tell me
you want to come over; you can
bed-lay all day, and
i will cover you in quilted love.

tell me you are four streets away
and i’ll swallow your name;
you can bend a shadowed
curtain to veil my face.