We are drinking just baby-girl-wine
shrieking through the sharpness
your body impressing like a censer
before me, swelling almost too sweet
to touch. I enjoy trying. You are a thing
to love wildly.
We dance for dead stars scissored
in night-sky hope. We stare into past,
understand the poet’s silence shaping
their man into monster. You are a thing
to love wildly.
We want to sing out the language
that the wind knows, forest flowers
and slip-slide oysters against a world
shrinking into exams taken as eleven
year olds. Dream big. You are a thing
to love wildly.
The night is ecstatic with green, warmth,
a disremembering. The clocks are on repeat
telling only the alarm of joy. You read
years of Lorca into space, en estrellas,
and I revel. You are a thing to love wildly.