We are in the river now, the voice of water
entering and reimagining us. We are in the red pickup
now, the radio undressing for country. There is a dirt
made road and a family of skunks, I swear—children
skunks no bigger than a roll of toilet paper waddle
down the peripheral thicket. We are in
the diner now, you with runny eggs, me
with sensitive teeth chugging the black linen
of coffee. When I ask you a question, I answer. When
you let the seam out of your voice and its sweetness
stuns the waitress, I'm the waitress, and the seam.
Too, the window, is a we. Too, the gravity of our dog
burying himself in the tiles for comfort, for what spills.
Beshert, can I ask you another—can I pour you
into my—would you still kiss me if—but before
you can answer, a we of geese creates and uncreates
in the sky the window clutches. We are in a green
pickup now, the red made green by a light we
zing through. The swimmer's muscles of your neck,
the greening, and your voice: my only trinity.
Slow down, you say, with your foot
on the gas. Slow down, I say, unzipping my silver
windbreaker for what my breasts have to say. You
necessitate me, we unravel a mouth simultaneous.
I wrote you a letter, we say. I'm terrified, drowning,
winter is, we say, my father is donated to the earth, what
now. We are in an elevator in a McDonald's
in Times Square getting hash browns because
we are drunk, and drunk. The elevator's interior
is a jewel of mirrors, you belong to every facet, to
my every face. And what am I supposed to do now.
I'm drunk in the loneliest mirror, in the most
neon, inarticulate chamber of the United States.
Your fingertips, greased with potato, whisk
my lip. We are in bed, a riverbed, the bed 
of a truck, a good bad diner, a red red hour,
a ten year fling, a shitty McDonald's, a body,
mine, yours, wherever I go, we pummels me.
How could I fight this bliss of fists? We are in
my bed, my body, with no clock. Even dawn 
is a we, so I part the curtain's hair to one side
to let us in.