It is always this night. Same
feeling, when you walk me to
my car. How you point out the
sharp palm fronds, watch out
they’ve got teeth. I thought you
said like razor blades. A sharp-
ness making shadows on your
face. A shy panorama shimmer
from the edge of the bodega light
to your ear. Here, we are always
on orange street. I think eternally
this is our own dark heaven, haven.
Our hands holding halves of this
blood fruit. And I wonder if we are
always standing at the street corner
eating each other’s hearts. Even
when nobody’s looking up. Even
when I feel like we must be some-
where else. Even when we are
somewhere else, it is at the foot
of the stairs of some great love
acropolis. Maybe an altar littered
like this gutter. With an elegant soda
can glimmer. A crushed compact
mirror. Blush powder a little rosy.
A little like the pink your lips make
on my bruised knees. You asked in
your room with your head on my
lap if this hurts. I said yes only if
I kneel. So you say without worship
you will do the kneeling. You will
do the making. So later I will do the
kissing goodbye of you. My only one.
