Brisket.

Un pedazo cortado de mí.

O.K.

I do not know what you want.
I can charm my way around it,
all the days, but not today.
And maybe not tonight,
although even as I write this
I can feel myself folding inside,
keening, pining, reaching,
if only to press my leg to yours.

Y su refleja.

Everything, is like
a photograph
to me now.
A postcard hobo,
going south.
And all his shivering
finally turning,
from the cold.

And this sun,
it has come ashore.
This sun,
is better than before.
And all it's glittering,
finally turning,

gold.

These K.B. Days.

Cuqui:

You will find, if perhaps you come to
know me, how I like the shiny things.
I did not know, myself,
how much I like balloons.

I feel, in these past some days,
so suddenly full in your company,
as though I might, weightless,
lift feet from the ground, and away.

I thought, to give them to you.
Thought, again, that maybe I am,
already, a little too much for you.

Last night, when you shifted,
and laid your head
upon my chest,
I smiled into the dark.
My heart was a mylar balloon,
dancing asparkle,
and tied to my wrist,
for safekeeping.

Don't nobody know me.

Me and Buddy,
bought the gun today.
That old rosewood handled
thirty eight.

And I said it was okay,
when the man there said,
son, this gun won't shoot
but once.