the wrong hour

i dream about kissing
the throats out of men
i’ve loved. in the dark
they taste like mango
but chew like oats. all
breakfast. i wish for coffee
to wash down the sticky.
i wish they dreamed me
into pieces. maybe they do.

i explain to my now love
how i always seem to find
myself made of hair on tile,
a smear across sheets,
a towel wet at the wrong hour.
it is easier to hurt than be
hurt i say but know
they are the same thing.

walk me around the city
on the same pieces of sidewalk.
when it’s too hot to touch,
use only the flat part of the tongue.
turn me to a salt lick. fuck me
behind glass.


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