Poem

In my secret city there are churches on every corner. I run into my favorite lover every half hour, and, oriented toward warmth, we find an uppermost alcove in which to speak. I don't skip class; I skip to class. I make it. I am always on time. My hands resist all aging. There are no phones. We know each other's monogamous pasts. There is only one invented self, one constructed moment. My output is propulsive as is my walking, my movement bounds and reveals. I apply. We enter into a singular room as words pour into our hands—yours on all manner of limb: mine, naturally. Trees don't die, unlike us. 

My body is a well-worn copper roof. Your fingernails tresses of freshly-mown hair. I gather your sweat in the mini bathtub of my studio apartment as I check the time on my sister's watch. We have the same best friend. An upright piano in my living room signifies my intention to stay. Your hope is permanent in me. We tell each other, "You're smelling wonderfully animal today darling," with 40 different expressions amid the time. Everybody comes to the party. Our capacity is infinite. I peel aside a handmade curtain as the show begins.