I draw my shades with crayon: listen, me,
you’ve been thinking. We shouldn’t see
each other, anymore. That gash below
your nose keeps double-dribbling, and
when you picture my liver you always slip

into second person. Tarred quips, stiff
sheets drawn in ball-point: my stippled
soul fills up on stories before your holy
goose is cooked. Listen, I looked back
and now we’re getting some

wear. Sure, sure, I’ll be salt, and you
salty: let’s tempt rough tongues,
slough your cells until I am
sweet, once, again and again.