Only the gray cat crossing the silver of an empty street.
Only the pigeon picking at its breast,
fascinated with the perpetual itch of its own body.
Only sex in front of the fireplace, the old
hesitations, the flames a blur
of creamy light on the ceiling.
Only the me and the you, the thorn and the rose, the hurt
still falling and falling though the cat is easy
and swell, its tail tipped in white.
The how of its stroll through the sky’s dripping
is only one truth, but I want it. The fur
slicked back along my body. And the naked.
And the who that glitters within its bullet-shaped head.
It is only the sex. But I want it. And the how and the who
of the world’s tears falling everywhere at once
and me the one with the red tongue, rough,
a rippled muscle drinking, only drinking
at the trough of the sky’s fallen body, those tears, that sweat, our rain.