please

Kissing the mulch pile, then me, with your
Sunday mouth, or what else will suffice.
Stuck between the Testaments, but soon enough
we're gone, with the decomposing dirt
still crumbling off our lips

There's nothing but time to kill in this
stolen white wooden boat, and you paddle
with such false conviction, and the oars are
splintering the water in two, and the smooth
schism between us has never been so clear

Teach me how to play, teach me how
to carry the two of us together like you did back there.
Show me how to tangle myself up in your inner
organs, leaving behind only an untraceable
path of knots and a little bit of blood and
yesterday's hand lotion to conceal the dying,
dying skin on my knees

Knee me into action, into heartache,
into that pile of leaves autumn disregarded