Almost every man I know talks too goddamn much. All my favorite poets are women & gods. What I really miss is the pavement at midnight, my elongated shadow. There are mornings when the hunger pulses through me, when I just want to see a man die like an ox in a flooded field, where every witness is swallowed at once by a minute of silence, then continues the work of living. It’s not that I’m thirsty for blood. I just want to be alone & with you at the same time. G told me long ago she thinks I’m cold & I responded for years by writing on shreds of paper, my mind is on fire. She slipped them into her mouth & waited for the wet grass of a man she could love. On my sternum there is a thumbprint from where you pressed a seed into earth. G told me, to be us is to die, before we kissed on the hood of my car. I charged up & doubled down against my own death. Years ago, I stole the necessary tools to bleed my idols & I haven’t stopped drinking since that first cut. They’re buried in my garden now, whispering into each other’s ears, fingers wet with blood & water, combing through your hair. Two suns live behind my eyes & while one rises, the other sets.