His Name

just the beginning,
slithers off wet lips with charm.

Mockingbirds use many tongues
to sing of slick footprints
stepping in,
stepping out.

At first blush they call,
crested blue, aggressive;
wild for the North,
where dragon fruit merges with devotion;
where I found his name.

We spread together as far as Summer could take us
until we melted into sunspots at the edge of the Earth,
high desert heat drying out our love.

Later, we flew south in high, asthmatic screams;
nocturnal – fugitive.
It is never the first time.
It is never the last.

His after tastes like a razor blade,
but I am a glutton and I cannot
let go of his name.

The Compromise

Hunger drips down her lips
with metallic intent;
the air is busy,
and unfortunate.

I follow her startled shadow
across the sky, where she carves
her birth,
adjusts her lie.

I am an untruth,
a moment of virtue,
a black sheep stretched
over her flowering plateau.

This is no place for love,
or for night,
or for sky.
This is a burial of the
sick compromise
of her and I.