There’s a mutual recognition:
a gait swayed by the fissure
in a Birkenstock. The barber’s
gentle grazing down the slope
of our necks, a straight razor
shearing the wool from the lamb’s
throat. Lingering the aisles
of plastic-wrapped boxer briefs.
The callous on the middle finger,
that callous way we hold ourselves:
teaching each other to glare
at midnight strangers.
There is an invisible muscle
hardening beneath the skin.
I see it in the growing
layer of dust on upper lips:
dolls lingering their thumbs over
the early hours. A room of
strangers becoming familiar:
their joints refigured by
instruments of yearning, a hand
stretching the octaves between lovers.
It’s a pinkie ring, Pit Vipers,
a bush glittering chlorine
and hot sun. It’s a horizon
scar across the chest and
tender gooseflesh after praying
with the priestess of lightning
and good looks. A dip of the chin.
A ring of keys. A mirror
strung between streetlights.
