I.

I blushed you to life
when we first met.

Milk eyes and
mud hands, raw

cheeks screaming
to give you color.

Notes for you to put
In the crowded hollow

of my ear. Elvis
tremors in your voice

because I want
him to.

     II.

Don’t be cruel.
In the car at night

I let my hand eat
your thigh. It tempts like wet

cement. My fingers in
pressed trenches. Palm

glides into place, eroding you—
underwater brass rubbing,

headlights doubling
in the rearview mirror.