I'll believe you when the locus become friendly,
spelling words from their ears
instead of toes. my nose smells your breath through the
screen in front of me,
through the words in front of you
and a cable of truths
no longer can I read the eyes of tin
people reading their point of views
on points of cues given to them as paychecks.
you say ad-lib, I say birdie
I wear my boots to bed while walking through talking ties,
leaning into syllables, like
into uninterested men leaning into them
for as long as it takes to get off.
then they get off, and the smell of it lingers.
If we'll last through the summer, last
through the fall.