Cosmonauts Avenue
for Victor

another day, it would be my blood first
your fingers, my waistband, your mouth,
my breath, your whisper, the back of you,
my blood, rushing and hard, on any other day

I’d ask you to tell me about another time,
somebody else, because it’s what I like
to know, is other men you’ve visited because
it’s what I like, too; to visit others, this early and late

because it’s what I like, to wake when morning is hard
to tell from night, your mouth both places,
and when you are hungriest, the waistband
running the length of my legs until it is gone.

my fingers raking your scalp another morning,
it would be your lips, the tongue,
the telling in between breaths, and me,
calling to god between your mouthfuls

and then the air, leaving my lungs
and entering through the cracked window,
and then it would be our tiny oceans, pooling
in you, on me, this early, or late.

all of this before dark blue breaks
sapphire and softer now, and clearer,
less blood, soft now and your first alarm,
and all of this right before you close the door behind you

another morning, all of this,
and this morning, waistbands, and blood,
and hard all the same, and no sign of your mouth
or my praying. still.

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