the dunes i walk through are the annals of doomed romance
all the old cruising spots have been transformed into parks 
again, the hole in the bathroom stall condemned & patched, 
the bathhouse palace palanquin of ghosts. when we are done 
all that’s left behind us is facts. the ground’s been turned over  
so much by commerce & colony you’d think it was my father 
turning in his sleep— worried about the kind of man i was 
out with that evening. i’d like to believe the soil remembers us, 
that all that semen grew something :

            a statue in the shape of a syringe
            a marble-wet trembling bottom lip

there’s a reason the flowers 
in fukashima grow two headed

that this whole godforsaken country’s tumored over 
with fast food & faster cars