"The sex has been bleating," rereading
what was the hottest
it's not you it's me
letter I ever received I am touched
by my new beau who was curious
as to how the last one
went down. When I said he wrote
a letter esorotic I cinched his arm,
needle in my mouth, all ready, there
to breath it into his skin,
"and I don't know how to fix you."
Say something quirky
or don't. The unruled paper
is losing its starch where my fingertips
start to sweat through
the air of another pre-summer Thursday night.
The ink smudges, but I have read it
so many times inside
the words come out as though
his throat were mine,
and I am touched
by the attention
to detail in every line, reciting it
curled up tight. He did not know how
to fix me, but, transfused into another's veins,
I think now I know
someone who might. I fold it up,
put it away, and watch his smile
beam from a new face,
and I am
unwound by street's light.
