you must hold the glass,

in case I become a fever of absence.

In my old version of creation,

our cosmos was birthed by another cosmos.

Which makes me fortunate, otherwise Johnny Rotten

would never have let me on his bus,

and I’d still be looking at my watch hours later

in tall fall grass, waiting for you to come.

The wheat aches for me

to run through it, tossing off jacket, pants, tee,

the bikini that slipped to show a nipple.

As for scissors, I’m never without them.

Round is the lip of glass, the pocked orange,

beautiful blue Neptune.

Show me a crazy overnight,

like the one where I lost at poker, and you

showed me your glittering icebergs.

The cosmos is still tumbling

its spent fireworks, blowing confetti

under our door. Even though you showed up so late,

I forgive you

your muddy Doc Martens,

looking at me

with your violets like that.