Watcher – this, your face pink-cheeked with abandon. This your hidden, thrumming hand. This, your wine-shadowed longing draped over his shoulders, laid flush against the petal white expanse of his chest – penetrable. Press it and he’ll bruise. Paint it and you’ll wound him beyond repair. Render the translucent skin of his throat in pigment, apple flesh, immutable. You have left so many places to sink your teeth. Consecrate his vulnerability in the sanctum of memory. Dust, not age, will pool in the hollow of his clavicle, that place where you once rested your callous hands, your long fingers drawing…

We must not speak now of etherized spread- eagle evenings fading skin histories from violent to -et to rose-risen blush. We must not rush now past the wee hours of waiting on fronted news, the foreplay tense, the hot slit in a letter, the shriek. I have never treasured the fingerprint sonic resonances of a snore. We shall not sever hydra stalks for fear of fresh blooms: already one says: “mankind cannot bear very much reality (wink here)”; next head: “bet you were a difficult child”; the next: “getting so drunk is a waste of my time, the college’s time,…

  Ed owns the road. I don’t. And he does the hard work. You can tell that by the cracks in his hands. He looks fearsome if you don’t know him with those pitted cheeks and hard stone eyes. He’s fearsome even if you do know him.   The title to that stretch of asphalt, route 87, is held by Ed when he grips the wheel of his old pickup, cranks it up to high gear, and rattles and rocks and farts his way to the next job.   He works for no one but himself, takes no shit from…