Sport 40: 2012
We get on
like a house on ﬁre. What a line. Nothing burns here.
Even my armpits grow mildew while I sleep and
lstick insects weld spindly watertight armour for storms.
A ﬁstful of stars spattered at this latitude night after night
always the same, just tilted, and you picnic alone on
a grass island between eastbound and westbound.
I skid up close, toss tins of corn out the window.
What’s your sign? Where’s your beggar’s placard?
Take a photograph to hang in my kitchen. You cook.
Feed me oysters. I’m allergic to ragweed and shellﬁsh
but what an aphrodisiac, to watch you shuck and pile
the soft parts in a shallow pool of vinegar.
I let you out in spring to press your low nipples ﬂat
against a sled on a dewy hill. It’s faster than snow
and a salt truck sprays the ice-sculpted children.
I paint a pot of daffodils for your desk and put you to work
writing the story of my life, especially the part where
you sit on my bike and put your thumbs through the holes in my