behind isla de colchon desnudo and through the open window
with this dousing of sunsetted hands the punch has come upon me
wet your peak shines
make these lips up then down
no evening coats our head from sleep
the last saltwater plaque on bodies, over
my gringo plays soft so you forgive me being mean
and our fly stops buzzing at a song only for tell
With no running water came paper plates and plastic forks.
sleepless lips pressed
up against satiated earlobe
muttered ugly to her you.
There is a girl I try from:
She doesn’t remember me.
I call her amnesia infidelity.
And the moss
curled at fingertips
While up something not there like time would come
And you’d point to the river and say, run it
The night Rem yelled
after Frank Stanford
I had the red shirt on
I had beer shards stuck in my flip flops
I sat on your steps lucky but exposed
I laid my head on sweat legs
I breathed underwater
With my lips
Lines of Cohen inspired
My slight of hand
A hand that disappears
Like keys dropped
Overboard and descending into deeper blues
O Power Magnolia Bloom, the night
You found me
I threw down my knives
Let me ignore yellow signs and hang my limbs out streetcar windows
Let our bottles of Chilean pinot be bottomless and our blushing breasts topless
To forget to get fucked over
To not see the eyes on our dancing
Editor's Note: These poems originally appeared on La Fovea.
Peyton Burgess is the author of The Fry Pans Aren’t Sufficing.