lately
i've been thinking about the mets
reading wojnarowicz on the subway
and contemplating language
how to write the poem

really i just want his hands all over me
want to feel the static off his skin
jesus hanging on the cross
lana on the stereo and maybe
it's so predictable

but in henrietta's i find worship
in the sweat of her back
never want to let it go
her hair all tangled in my mood ring