fat thing with no direction but
occasional flap, emerged from the sofa where

your voice is warm, i take the fat of it
home with me and lose it between

the cushions, i can’t
imagine you any thinner, if it’s revolution

you want, i’m gunless like a thing with wings
see-through and stuck with resin

sacks, all night i put up your
bad plans on a map, your hands

go sideways, like a diagonal gnat
of blankets, have you ever as a grown

woman touched a photo of a
grown woman and let it fall crooked beneath

you and sat with the downfall, down where you exaggerated
movements to get it off the ground, her waistline

impossible, your fingers long and summery, it won’t
stay still until i tell you, which is funny you say, since

it’s the silliest thing going as her breasts slip
below her shirt, it’s summer after all on the train tracks, in her

photographs she has on the best brown
lip gloss i’ve ever noticed, maybe now that i have

stopped flailing my arms and throwing
myself against walls.