In the city, a weather of zeros-and-ones 

cascades through rising static, while here

in this xeric topography, we fold ourselves

into the circumstance of desert foothills

chewed away by leprosies, toothed winds, and 

sudden rains. Will you let me 

approach you? Bend forward 

and touch consequence, tenderness, leave

the trace of my fingertips 

on your throat’s dimple, your 

clavicle, nipple? Lean in. In  

my mouth, the sound of  

your name has changed.