Wine between cacti and carnivorous flytraps,
our bodies syncing to the DJ’s bad decisions,
I can’t stop getting turned on
by the idea of myself
somewhere without neighbors,
out by a river called Rogue or Big.
I’m in a greenhouse corner with K,
her perfect American jeans
and baby-eyes that widen
when she sees something surprising.
Lights, snaked through the pots,
color our faces with neon blinks.
There are lots of pettable leaves
and she would like to get married
to a hypothetical being, grow a human, the whole shebang.
We talk about how frightening this is to want
and we talk about horses,
a topic I know as an idea and she knows actually,
kind of like how we both know marriage,
but opposite. Out There like ideas
the bears are. And the solitudes are.
And her future spouse. There’s a fish I could stab in the head
myself to gauge if I should ever eat flesh
again. In Here is a pleasure
I’m allowing to continue. O Cowardice,
there’s one plant in this conservatory
made of glass, and I’ve found it.