On the Door of a Lavatory along Interstate 40

My love for you is yet in the infancy of its making,
     the heat of your glance fires out my breath
our desire’s taking, my knees shaking less when I know the light
     you throw is the moon melting, taking
no prisoners, incinerating kisses it presses down
     onto powdered flesh, my chest your fresh
canvas, your tongue a wandering brush, colouring my flesh moist
     with indecision—could you be him?

The portrait of my liberation? Pounding pulse and grinding
     heart, my ribs dance so impatiently
in anticipation, your mouth lowering, going down to
     where else, but the point of damnation:
unutterable crossroads redacted from sanitary
     suburban maps, where trucks stop and men
back up, evolution failing or saving them, cruising for
     the sensation of knowing firsthand

the touch of another man when a hand will not do, enough
     pleasure in one measure of a since
abandoned, incomplete song, so long as it’s sung by a thrush
     whose thrusting notes drip with the same thirst,
sharp enough to drown out shame, puncturing stall walls, all-seeing
     eyes in singular multitudes poke
through, sighting what anonymity to deviants will do:
     to pant and undress partially, just

to impart and receive what all want, but society says
     will only harm us if we relent
to its haunting chant, and so I pull you in, dignity and
     all, occupying the same cell, breath
steaming up the stained walls of our shared cubicle, calling you
     lover until you come, both stalling
until someone walks in, until fluorescent razors stop
     their scraping of tubes well-hung, but so

poorly coordinated as they hum, dangling over us
     as we summon up, from a flood of
condemnation, a hint of hesitation traded for quick
     release from this prison we call us—
and as I guide your head to my hip, how my denim slips, and
     into your tightest gallery my
ornery thickness rips, an exhibit of a crime lining
     your jaws like obscene Polaroids on

bare walls, and so now I submit, letting you lick me as you
     remit payment for my acquaintance
in a hot currency only other robbers pick up on,
     toughs rubbing off to the thought, rubbing
themselves raw—cops in need of chaos to know control, since not
     showing it at all leads to wicked
wilderness; stressful exile of a dick without transgression
     reveals it is not a dick at all,

since its inception, the male body has been a temple where
     man’s wildest nature demands to be
reverenced, and so I unleash my inner bestiary,
     my demons leaking a chorus of
blankest oblivion, filling up your own with the dismal
     reality of a once moving
body reduced to a frigid image, spilling umbrages
     of cotton, ivory-tinged hiccups

tincturing twice-blurred visions with little to go on but an
     accident of pixels, arranged to
communicate some resemblance of the actual, of a
     man whose soul ennobles him who can’t
replicate it, but feels content to respect it, for in these
     moments of misadventure, a man
so lecherous finds himself more human, and in cruising, I
     found you, a new man too beautiful

to be carrying the weighty sin of ancestral Adam,
     but you’re not mine, and love is only
for pursuit, not for having, so I ruminate our future
     down to pens of hypothetical
abandon, scribbling this memorial on the door of this
     toilet we met in, a feeling of
homecoming in foreignness, looks of limerence exchanged for
     untranslatable languages, since

ours is a dialect of no nation, not for speaking, but
     for experiencing, you have what
I find myself always seeking: that hazy dream of meeting
     truth in a soul’s uninhibited
incarnation, my own reflection in him I am facing,
     but fleeting is the destination
when we keep rushing to take each other in, never pausing
     to see we are thieves stealing passion.