I like you better when you’re naked, out of
suits buttoned up shirts, almost like a child,
that easy to love. But you look at me as men
do, while the curls on your chest wrap around
my fingers. I take shade off of lamps to see you better
with, put glasses on, know then nothing
is touching you but the hands of me, the hip bone
on hip bone of the thrusting us.
I like you better when you’re drunk enough to kiss
each of my eye lids, my mouth even
though people are watching. You rub the knot
of my neck, slip your cold hand across the back
of me, you keep it there as if trying to find
something to belong to.
I like you better, when you’re definite like rolling
R’s on Spanish tongues, not smelling the sweet
frosty way she does, or looking at your watch
after we’ve only just made love.
The sky is blank then, the canvas of a crippled artist,
no flock of birds- reminders of migration, movement
beyond what no longer works – what is, always is, never