His mouth could be
a seagull over blue
horizon of shirt if
a bird could be pink
and sexual. His but-
tons are undone just
enough, chest hair
edging his collar.
Because he’s asleep
I can watch to see
if he swallows.
Still Life with Train.
Mouth about to Be
Fucked. Man Who
I’d Hate If We Spoke.
If I kissed those lips,
mashed them against
teeth, he would wake
scared, angry, disgusted,
punch me. I want him
to handle me like that.