Every time we curate sex, a lonely sparrow bellows
below our weathers’ more inventive spans. Another angel

spreads her legs through the grasses of the park 
outside your apartment window. There are clouds in the shapes 

of thumbs. I ask my ancestry to revise itself. Every 
winter, find bird shit on my right shoulder; my left bare, 

boring. I need to know the color of your favorite
ocean, its sunrise an open peach, a carved-through fish. I eat fish 

for every meal. Fasten your sorrow, adopting 
a riptide’s ideal form. Fasten the sun 

becoming each morning. You depart like plant leaf, sorrow 
at the center, a black coat left hanging in the fog.