Above you, I want

to be handsome. Hands

on me now. Picture a man

in a coat at the end of a street.

Think of his jaw, a glinting

bend, then feel the edge

of my own. Close your

eyes. We pretend like this:

the blade is real. Press forth

and it does not yield. I will not

hurt you. Nothing hard about me

is an accident. My hip bones on

yours are an exact calculus,

no room between us for

error. My voice in the night

is his jacket—how a rough rasp

can costume such soft heat. Please

believe me when I say that I am

trying. The streetlight is out

and this road is so long. Let me

drive our tired bodies home.