{Metro North poem}

I'd blame this on Westchester County, but I wrote nothing so creepy in my two years in residence there.

lies about the moon

the criminal who is half you rests
on a bed of flies. they flutter,
convulse, tickle his scapula
like a lover uninterested in sleep

rush to him. lick his eyelids
down, sweet paste / run your thumb
along the slack of his lip, the mole
on his jaw, twitching

the flies flatten out of jealousy, spreading
their bodies into the grease
of old angels, wings in black, the hundred
hundred eyes

press your nipples to his, remember the dream
where you played the killer telling lies
about the moon to girls
over tequila, how sore
your wrists were on waking

the criminal who is half you loves
your ass, your hesitation at stoplights,
the fact you pay taxes / the least
you can do is give it once more

with feeling, one more wink
over SoCo, one more heart
of the kitten so tasty with burgundy,
lemon and basil.