Alligator

I write sense until it bends me backwards — only the snap of sinews can break me out of my burial

but I am not sure I want to escape. There are sweet slivers of syrup here; the thin edge of passion, the soft

slip to somewhere else. We can tread the line of daybreak but it will not keep us full. There are things

we remember to forget — like the way you turned your smile into an alligator, all sneaking pounce and

gnashes of desire. Like the way I blossomed gods from the wells I dug before I found rivers, seas. I watched once

as he knelt before a star that would eat him alive — I am not saying nihilism is a good thing, no, but

he was duped by beauty and I wished to tell him that peace is an iron fist. I did not: maybe being burned

is not everybody’s heaven. I lie on the back of this earth and let the sky berate me, although I am not listening — I

am thinking of you snaking through the waters, your eyes above the still: oh, to feel the red breath

of both worlds.