t o p o g r a p h y

can we never map the moon again

if everything has become

so clear. if even the hush click hush of

revolving doors reminds us

of the airstrip, the heat of the

tampa baggage claim where i stood

for hours. a flickering mirage.

after sunset i brush the summer

from your shoulders and

ask you into the dark. tell you

how i mapped the moon at dawn

where it sank like blood back

into the clouds. and the sound of

the streetlights echoing us

walking home, something jerking

awake beneath your skin,

which is damp where i touch it.

everywhere i touch it. it feels

like the sun sinking back

past st lambertus on the riverside,

like i am kissing your neck and some

hysterical light is leaving you.

you go from a mouth so living into

a parody of heartbeats.

music in an empty room. and i

catch my breath thinking why

it hurts to see you go. it is

the same way i feel about girls

who cry after i fuck them. who turn

over and over in their bedsheets

and press out white roses, one

after another, round

and soft and moaning.