Sport 40: 2012
like a house on ﬁre. What a line. Nothing burns here.
Even my armpits grow mildew while I sleep and
lstick insects weld spindly watertight armour for storms.
A ﬁstful of stars spattered at this latitude night after night
always the same, just tilted, and you picnic alone on
a grass island between eastbound and westbound.
I skid up close, toss tins of corn out the window.
What’s your sign? Where’s your beggar’s placard?
Take a photograph to hang in my kitchen. You cook.
Feed me oysters. I’m allergic to ragweed and shellﬁsh
but what an aphrodisiac, to watch you shuck and pile
the soft parts in a shallow pool of vinegar.
I let you out in spring to press your low nipples ﬂat
against a sled on a dewy hill. It’s faster than snow
and a salt truck sprays the ice-sculpted children.
I paint a pot of daffodils for your desk and put you to work
writing the story of my life, especially the part where
you sit on my bike and put your thumbs through the holes in my
Maybe I grew up here but maybe I got no older
like I can walk the length of this beach
can run from campsite to industrial lights
like El Segundo where I once lost
Rosie’s bikini bottom to the waves
like Ravensbourne where we drove
the night I ﬁnally kissed Jo
three, four, ﬁve years ago
when I came to this country alone
with no sense of myself or my future
Now I can walk this beach again
can run with my eyes on the sky
and no matter how far I go, Orion stays still
getting no closer or farther away
like a photograph set before a treadmill
But if I continue long enough into the night
at last, on his own, he seems to rise
and the stars behind become bright
ﬁlling in the empty spaces until
all the shapes have changed