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.