On each body is carried the shape of its absence—the uncontrollable morning— a hammock over-turned by the wind—bird- shit—which implies beauty but is not beautiful in and of itself—now on both sides of the cloth— How does it feel to not want— I want a woman’s body that isn’t afraid of me—my back against whatever is stronger—a pillow, a table, the hood of a car—I want to lift and be spread out—a blanket on the deck—the earth turning at a thousand miles per hour—18 miles a second hurtling...
