Spending time today with this long poem posted at Word Riot, falling in love with its language and imagery and the deep, resonant familiarity of it.

. . . Everything—even the crickets—will stop
& listen as you split a screen door from its dry-socket frame

but I’ve heard the unfastening of hips, the careful click of human
exhaustion. I’ve heard a wooden door open its mouth for you

& I swear I would too, because it’s your not-quite-human quiet
that I want. I called you hazy field of yellowed grass, called you sleepy

heap of secrets. For a long time I plan to keep the slow motion
swing of you between my legs—here, at the joints, the fragile

rubbed against & held together. . . .

Read the whole thing. It’s beautiful.