Forgive my impatience / for nostalgia, your penicillin or wine, / your muddling through pleasure / as a map whose compass was inked / by men who put darker men / to the lash,

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