I want to watch you, two,
walking an ancient, jaundiced boulevard
waiting for sugar and lime-soaked alcohol.

Her face, so enamored by you;
it shrinks into a cross.
Your blotches, your hives, your blemishes:
react riotous, red confetti
of the ticker tape parades.
The soundtrack, the din:
a slapstick serenade.

Above you, an English sun, your day glow:
darkens to the shade of your intentions.
Your eyes lock, pupils seedy
and the warm brown glow of a peach pit.

Then you loitering, not doing much before the fight,
it is enough for you to be beside
a cornflower postcard of a seaside b&b.

Supremely jealous, I dab gasoline
on my upper cheek for penance.
These aching eyes, maybe their glue
will vanish my melting rhombus lips,
the color of the deepest cherry gelato,
mouthing the line-colored cold
perimeter of a protruding 99 Flake
doused in monkey’s blood.

I grieve. The geraniums on the sill bleed,
then braided in a garland
between my bruised knees.


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