Untitled 1975–86

What sweet death I wish

upon you, dear

child of the leathersong.

In between my lassoed

palms, your neck, the wry shape

of a recurved bone,

cancellous, unspooled

into a pile of thread. Your rib cage

alpines just below

your Adam’s apple, rigid

collection of cartilage

gathered beneath

the chin. My limbs

are peacocking from

your thin waist and wrist. There

is ice loosening

my grip on each of these

rails, all but the one

that could fold your vertebrae

in two. The beetles

are tonguing

at the ends of my cold

fingers, they await

something to decompose. I cannot

blame them for a process

I do not own. I do not understand

lust or grief. The properties of how

to hang a man

by his own perversion. Submissive

coyotes bred into breaking. It

has become easier to confuse

the sweat of you for blood.

The dove on the corner

joist watches your head slowly come

undone from its collar. Like

every good ending,

I lose my grip

and the bird starts to sing.