Hop-frog the fence and tell me

you’re thinking about my hands.

I’m thinking about yours on my

everywhere all over the kitchen

and the broken couch held up

by a cement-block we dragged

off the street and the new bed 

you just built with your hands

last night before we didn’t

Do it. Spit it out.

But we’re doing nothing wrong,

Officer, we’re just so beautiful,

so sneaking under barbed-wire.

Diesel down, up on the loveseat

you’re riding me so like that, so

candle wax and hot iron, so throat

burning with the fire left unsaid. 

So, spit it out. Light the

cigarette / lantern. 

It’s a vigil for another dead stranger. 

How many lights did we forget 

while we triple-locked the door?

It doesn’t matter. There are so many

more lightning bugs than you meant 

to conjure, but that’s just what happens

when you’re looking at

his hands on your throat

from the outside. None of us were worthy, 

but we’re here. I stopped feeling sorry 

and went outside. I went outside 

and hated the light. I hated the light, 

but I loved the trees, loved every 

sentence of their undead leaves, 

all the trying the light missed. How 

the blood runs thick in your arms 

when you wrench those hands 

over the railing, pulling your body 

back inside. Enough

furniture shopping. Tell me we’ll 

make it. Don’t stop running—