God Was In Love

squirming like the licentious ease
of my fingers in
your skull’s red roots,
the industrial murk
of your
body
like the urban sway
of bridges in the whispered air.

in their gray shadows
the jacarandas
scrape the fog
for purple arms
and keen,
keen.

Derelict

the morning air like a white sinew
I shuffle with bare chest
to the yard
where the aphid-tattered roses
are not
the mewls of your studded skin;


rather,
summer mornings are gluttonous
with bug-howls but
require nothing
of me—
the dew-jangle merely
cool under my toenails and wet
white beads ignorant
of
the mountainous lust
behind the window
muttering.