On each body is
carried the shape of its
absence—the uncontrollable morning—
a hammock over-turned
by the wind—bird-
shit—which implies beauty
but is not beautiful in and of
itself—now on both sides
of the cloth—
How does it feel
to not want—
I want
a woman’s body that isn’t afraid
of me—my back against
whatever is stronger—a pillow,
a table, the hood of a car—I want to lift
and be spread out—a blanket
on the deck—the earth
turning at a thousand miles
per hour—18 miles
a second hurtling
through space—I want to be held
to the ground—a bird
after it has been a bird
against a window—I want
what any woman wants—a body
she can sleep in—my own—sheets
pushed to the side—