November’s flame in that year of hard sunsets, /      of winter’s plangency & days where sleeplessness  / & cognac ran together. / All our thoughts were beginnings, / and you were the roundness / that grew to a moon / above your mother’s hips.

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

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

Sing your song sudden, let it be / a car door hitting the breastbone, / small tear in the pink of an eye. / Who hears it when you keep its hum / at the base of your throat?