For Renaldo Arenas

Now I am a child-knot:

I open my head,

and free prodigious strivings and writhings of sand-colored thirst,

they are bashful and run for her skirt

- the balooned mesh with which she wipes rain from my head

and beaded morsels of my own skin

I am younger still:

a fetal cloud arisen from neighboring sounds:

the wet gush of a summer fuck that feels cool,

and then warm

and then cool

and then loud

I am not with you,

and the earth is not a perfect orb,

though she spins...

as the pelts of fauna limp after their feet,

dizzied by miraculous jagged beams of liquid light

that tease away the curtains of their skin,

we are young and knowing as we blush with prayer