November

you make it so hot here,
i sit back and sweat. let’s
not let go, our eyes
prisms we'll rust together
in pieces to get out
the salts of raw thighs.

i taste your oils—
please, savor the steam
condensing on walls
where windows thrown wide
it smells of lighter fluid,
you smell like wine.

if there are traces left
later I’ll play detective
just for a last taste of
any lingering suggestion
before the whiteboard’s erased
of incriminating links
just to make future space for
your invisible inks.
                                   let’s
hope teacher knows
to draft fresh air inside
lest the students get wind
and melt in their hides,
from steam that we made
with windows thrown wide;
that spyglass made fire,
you still smell like wine.

Dreams of Better Jobs

you were in need
of tiny arms
embedded in a chain
of subterranean gears.
he’d been caught
drinking straight
chlorophyll again
on an overcast day
like a ring of reflective puddles.
and too many
podiatrists were
receiving office calls
for anyone to recognize
the ordinary
nature of their shift
in gait.
              it’s all
the heavy lifting
you’ve done and I
can understand
the adrenaline rush helps
but maybe, just
maybe, you should
let the kid learn
his own tune. sweeping
the floor is american
              zen.