The revisionist

[shuck_spit]

ii

Or seducing a drunk at home
and curling him up inside my bed
like a blind kitten, and pressing
my knees into the back of his,

and letting out the half-monster sigh,
imitating November. His eyes
tracing panic on my ceiling,
I pushed him to his edge

but no further. Another night
I'll push him into his bed moaning.
The night before, I kissed him
kamakaze-style the end of buddy night.
Today I sing a song I well remember.

iii

Stone stairs snap twigs down
forest's cleft, - hammy stone rail,
gothic, fat enough for us both
to sit, with her lolling
head at my meated chest,
trading parts in For the Time Being -
and indeed. Dense stone, forest, verse,
friendship. She, at sixteen,
could press Proust into my hand -
exam in eight weird years,
like a psychic with a straw roof.

I barely studied. If it doesn't cut in
line breaks, I didn't read it.

iv

And in your bed,
gummed up, fucked in the guts,
afraid of all talk,
I add a scene to my understanding of happiest,
clipping and recollaging
the others before sleep catches.