At some odd hour, I wake—maybe four. / Shallow sleep bleached by fluorescence. / The air tinny with the rumpus of water’s / steady pelt against a mixing bowl. / This house’s restlessness is my own.

Photo Credit: Dale Robbins

With a fuel tank full of testosterone, / the procreative drive wedged / like a brick against my throttle, / I break to bail from atop my lover / mid-orgasm—my basting seed / a road winding away from her waist. / I don’t feel guilt, but I say sorry / 
for the wreck of me on her skin.

Photo credit: Dale Robbins

She’s a Negro dove / so her song sounds like / a man divining scratch-offs, / false discerner of his own fortunes. /  She cups possibility, / puts it in a pocket, / throws it in the garbage, / and purchases another.