Summer

Boys find a dead bird

Buried by autumn's litter:

We poke it with sticks.

Boys on fruitless trees:

 We huff cold air between us.

Winter is simple.

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Streaks in a black sky,

Shooting stars brace for death:

His hand rests on mine.

Boys in the spring heat:

He grips a lily. “I dare

You to eat it, whole.

Boys in summer. Boys 

in summer. Boys in summer.

Boys in summer. Boys

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In the misty grove—

One hand grips the other: and

That is good enough for them.

In the Fog at M.D. Anderson Library, University of Houston

I want to say something about the moon: God’s eye

or butthole, whichever. My breathe suspended

in winter air, the mint

                                         fading into my saliva.

Tonight, I will lie with a man I have never met.

As our shadows coalesce, the stray cats, 

and the moon, too, will quiver in the belly of the fog.