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.