A First Poem, A Giving In

Under the chatter of stars
let us eat fruit, rotten or ripe.

Climb over me, hip to bone
measure the precise weight

of longing in a tent made of veils.
Your bloodlnes crawl inside me

ants to a hill, stones to a grave
a slice of moon puncturing night.

Scrolls of messages
lie hidden in primeval sands -

lover, dig.

Zoos

I always did detest the pant
the nervous gait beside a fence
perhaps because I understood

captive. An animal only senses
everywhere it needs to go.
Tonight I pace wooden floors

screens hold me hot.
Lightning. Exaggerated
distance. You.

Close enough to chase -
suddenly.