A good mistake. A creak of pipes.
Red wire off a tailspin. A spout
of misinformation. I can’t touch
you, but I can touch your suit.
Mists congregate over meatloaf;
ghosts dine at this luncheon.
I hold your hand under the table.
The gluttonous chandelier hangs
over us, arms sprawling out
and trying to touch everything.
On television. In the convertible
with the top down, with your arm
slung over the hunched crumple
of my shoulders. In the bassinet
with Neptune creaking overhead.
A rocket has a silver-tipped nose.
It nudges at the sky to part a span
of blue. What do we have but me
lowering myself between your thighs
for the purpose of filling my mouth.