Sexual Encounter

Running is onerous, and Magnolia is in blue.
I am allergic to her saliva, but I like to scratch my skin,
and there is no reason to believe I am not edible.

The sheets are blue linen. Josh slept on the blue linen.
I stroked Josh’s thin, long, brown hair before he left
And found one in my bed. It is not true that we did not touch,

Not exactly, for in the last hug, there was the touch of the hair.
Otherwise, as I narrate in surfeit to everyone I know, there was no touch.
It was in Grand Street station. We stared at each other across the tracks.

His stare is paradoxical, because it shows nothing, and is still intense.
Jerry claims he can see desire in it; I see something more like fear.
He wanted to be kidnapped, and demonstrates the corresponding expression.

Later he stands in the kitchen and looks at me sit at the desk.
To stabilize my feelings I imagine myself in a set role: dominatrix.
He doesn’t want to leave the kitchen, but he has to go somewhere.

What does a crush like this in fact feel like?
Pincer-like sensations and warm and psychedelic.
Various, illimitable, like a dense thicket.

Weeds grow so variously and voluminously here.
But reality was in the dark, and we did not do it.

More often I clasp Jerry’s warm and fragrant body and he comes profusely.
That sex is physical. It is so, so physical, that I lack the words to describe it.

I’d like to come home to a full website,
But in matters of love everything is immediate.

I don’t write, but conversations are nightly and calm.

The text shines from the sun, one wears clothes under it.
I can’t believe he wrote me an email the morning after we slept

in the same room, not together, though I almost climbed in the bed.
A letter is open on my desk, three tri-folded sheets, slightly bumpy.

The heat is over. The beginning of summer ended
long before I wrote. Weeds die with dropped seed.

I anticipate that tall grass will become bent softness,
that the corn planted across the street will be cut.