Imagine a boy in a bed who makes love
like he’s drilling into rock, blasting holes
into everything soft he can put
his hands on; Imagine a boy
who barks like an old dog lying on a porch,
two hands wrapped around a glass of whiskey
who says things like: what is the frequency
of the colour black, what does light speed
mean to darkness?
Imagine the boy as an antipsychotic, mouth
full of pin-feathers blowing out dandelions
in his mother’s garden, whose fingers wrap
around California Poppies and leave blood
on all the grass stalks when he pulls them off;
Imagine the boy as an antiseptic, burning
against every place you choose to put him,
and the richness of when he almost opens
his lips and lets something escape,
it is dark, the heart-breaking sweetness
of things almost said,
Instead, he says: listen, it wasn’t enough
for me to find love, I had to devour it-
I’m not sorry.