Friday, November 5, 2010 Y 7:39 PM

Ovals
i.
We creep up softly to the monte obscured by
Flores Street and freeways.

Urban comets whiz above. Taillights
and the spectacle of a Tower watching out

for us.

ii.
I could change shit for you.

Stay. Dig the meaty parts of your calves
Into my shoulder blades. Sigh.

Press your feet into my throat. I could make
Ovals in the sod. Endlessly. Irrevocable

impressions, tattoos and toes.

iii.
I could make it so that you’re the only one.
Could conjure an arroyo to make mud that

will mask our tire troughs and raise the
earth-scent. The 10 has torn hapless gaps

into this photograph:

atop my bike, this colchón and my
Southside longing.

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