His mouth is the plié of a sitar.
It cinderblocks: smoke, and cinders.

Melting under the spell of votives
sweet-icing, thick like vanilla: split

up the middle of MacArthur after midnight.
We bathe under the gaze of a not quite full moon.

Merlot-lipped Merboy, shadow-sheer smile,
black like bible-ink, or black like intention,

or black as hickies bitten by another half-butterfly
boy that crept into his window like citronella

smoke in coils of karma, smoke, and rosary.
I am caught between Kubric and cupid

And cupid’s got a gun,
so I am leaving with him.