Come home with me,
he says
and then looks at me: I was a firefly
caught in the right nick of darkness,
I—having lost my light, a light
he now seeks, the darkness heavy as a song
or the perseverance of it—follow him.
But there isn’t a home. There’s an alleyway
and a river we both drink from. First
from each other’s mouth. Then, as the river guides us,
saying, Here is where the animals drink,
the way heat guides, or, as it is, the way pleasure
orchestrates, we fumble into the fairy tale.
All is how it was wanted: the moon thawing
into a day lily, the music sifting.
Then rain.
Then a decision between receiving the trophy
at the end or the end.
There’s a waterfall and river somewhere wonderful
with dead salmon, he says
while taking off his clothes as if they would willow
into flames at any moment.
He is naked
and his reflection scales the river.
It’s been a while since I’ve seen desire
assembled like him. Sometimes, when I sculpt desire
a face, it’s my face calling into the night
like a thrush tricked into thinking it’s morning.
He walks into the water
and the water serpents behind,
humming: Come.
I want to follow.
There, beside our clothes, a rock slowly swallowed
and then released to be swallowed again, mimics our fervor.
Rapture is the water.
We are the rock.