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

to purgatory,

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

in wintertime.


The sun will have set by then, and we will fall,

and we will fall.

Thumbnail image by Nathan Alford.