The dead end. The cul-de-sac. The grey asphalt
Circle lined with concrete houses. Elms
In brambled forms, cornflower in indigo stalks.
The bottomless jaw of this July night
Spotted with constellations of canines
And molars. The wind’s star fire scent.
I spend every hour tracing my teeth
With my fingers. My left hand finds my neck.
My desire’s a pristine source. You understand,
Don’t you? You’ve loved a man. The whole of it.
The red saliva. The web of another’s mouth.
I despise it — these auspices of touch.
But, you’re allowed. I peel the paper pith
Of clementines and discard the honeyed fruit,
Then cut the rind in threads to coat in sugar
Until the ends meet in an orange wheel.
I might not be here when you arrive, but
I’ll leave the front door open. You know the way.