Moon still loose over the city,
still loose over the fields. Still between
the thin lips of clay. We, still boys
who wanted other boys. Still ice slipped
in the canyons of our mouths, still melting
and melting fast. Still inevitable.
Melting fast, we are born regardless
of the sky, the summer drought
it gave us and will eventually
take back. For now I hold
Arizona like your name
in the brush of my mouth.
In the brush, we are still
beyond the thin
archipelagos of dune graves,
leading ourselves back
to the city we believed in,
but never knew.
We never knew where to find
the spiders, the careful webs
of Heaven for our strange
bodies. One night I swear
I saw two crowns of silk
spun fresh across the sand.about the author