Say despite all the churches with their unlocked doors
and outstretched strangers’ palmskin, I hungered still
—squandered when, fell through like a crumb, I sat waiting
for discovery or disintegration—something marvelous
teething at the surface—a crumb, devotional, religious ecstatic
closer to being worthy
Desire me ruthless and naked but still in my Sunday dress
you opened the window—we humid and slept open
into dreaming, yes, conduit. Conduit or nothing. Conduit
or bust. Nothing or busted. Hug the breakwater’s edge
more the grit, my fingers—whorl, the inches of all
concrete make miles of this low, walled city.
Pretend expansive with me like ocean.
River. Lake. Bodies.
