When I say it gets heavy as the bottom of a lake, go out on the porch. Bring crackers,

bring oranges, whatever a woman in khaki shorts might give. Not offer, the difference matters. Yelling, on and on,

midfield, in khaki, yes, plus sunglasses. Too angular to flatter. I came late to understanding this look, even though my legs crave it,

even though I know I can put my mouth to it, become hot. Something to do with your hands while she goes on yelling about position.

Your name at the center. Requiring running, demanding it. Sun in your eyes and sounding it.

Delirious, I said to you on the phone, supine in the weather. Pouring out of me, into the wood,

bottomless.

Requiring salt, extra salt. Use both hands, making a mess that attracts light. Enough to crush into more.

Shoulders, exploded, put them where they go. If they snap like wings into position,

good. If you feel it happen, then you understand what I asked.

The screen door, bloated in the wind, relaxed when it stops.

Happening again, these waves, flooding the porch with attitude.

Storm coming, voluptuous and loathing. Bet you know by the way it pulls your hair straight from the roots. Electric,

in that manner, nightmarish.

Slow the hell down, open from the underside,

swell into position like the screen door.

Magnolia grandiflora. Catfish with a fat mouth. Kneeling to meet it,

deteriorating, the bottom, the weekend. Like fucking soft serve,

what you scoop to access, making a cup to practice the sensation. Lips,

you know what, when you look at it, when you extend to it,

flattening.

I want to tell you, no one cares about being polite, and everyone feels mean,

sucking meat of the last olive, undoing it, leaving the pit in a glass.

I want to tell you, wine requires muscle, or the best kind does, gelatin shaped like someone took half of it from you,

the kind of moon you bite into and hope it makes your mouth bleed, rubbing where you guess the bone is, dark pink. That kind of aftermath,

like heaven, is worth it.

Show me that you believe me. Prove it to me. On this rotten day.

Suspended, everything in the atmosphere. Resting where it will, pooling in the cavities. Where I bend a little.

This wreckage I call a body, arriving at the edges, constantly. Fucked in this kind of weather.

Still oozing. I need a flashlight to see. .