I don’t know how
A wandering stone with no place of your own.
Nothing to give, and nothing to show, and nothing to receive.
You lay down on the cigarette lane waiting for the watermelon seed woman.
She visits you every Saturday, when work is late, and aisles are empty, bringing black growth, and spit out promises.
On the tip of your tongue, sits my heaven, and on the tip of your thank you sits my defeat, and my breathless kiss keep.
You quick boy, wet from diving for sex coins.
Drowning in your own brain fluid.
Let’s be old as old can be, and still be young enough to enjoy the senior citizen discount at grocery stores, cinemas, and airports.
We’ll be fat house cats, watching Betty and Pete share cheek pecks across bicycle sidewalk love on the trek back from school.
You beautiful boy of canyon rocks, of cave stones, of tractor plow lanes planting corn seeds in your hair.
Enjoy my American mouth, my eagle sensibility, you wandering bushy tail ice cream summer love specie.
