Alma, the suns of liquor burn my throat: br I am wearied and undone, just an illusion now on the br Deserts of my bachelor’s domesticity: br Your elephants hang above my head across from br Monet’s sailboats, br And everything I have ever done has broken and turned br To the cinders br Of a careless match in the once green mountains: br And pretty boys still go out to make love to anyone br Even through the audacity of sudden and br Violent rain, br But all by myself all I can think of is touching your brown br Skin, br Of squeezing it for a little while in my imperfect hands, br Of rolling you across the cotton caesuras of my bed; br And my desires of having my own wife and children br In a sea that only knows your eyes and senses: br That I love you through the concordance of this chaos of motion, br While all of the heavenly bodies spin and lose their heads, br And I keep settling down to the bottles of a fermenting metamorphosis, br While the monarch butterfly or its imposter flew over my br Shoulder today, br While I was just around the corner from where you attended br Your register, br Punching in the beautiful numbers before sending all the strangers br Outside the tents of your br Beautifully venomous revival.