by Hank Jeannel
I don’t know how to unlearn my
love for sunsets--
But your teeth are windows
into an old ending,
worn out like basil leaves
in a cottage up for auction.
Angry: because my fingertips are so
magnificent when they touch the landmines
on your torso.
I like touching you, like
saltwater likes touching sand.
If scratch paper, wet, is my ticket
I will remember you there.
I will love you
there and we will embrace on grapes when
my skin has finally been taken off,
like a wool coat by fires
The sun will have set by then, and we will fall,
and we will fall.
Thumbnail image by Nathan Alford.