# #san francisco

5 poems

## [bonfire](https://chromato.graphics/bonfire)

we spin on turntables  
gift-wrapped bubbles  
plotting high treason

one query hangs on  
a hook near my thigh  
_“how do you want to feel?”_

you produce three words  
two supple, one sharp  
relaxed. caregiven. surrender.

we better not have another  
handle’s cold to the touch  
i hold your hand for warmth

fetching a towel and water  
unfamiliar closet and faucet  
you aren’t used to this, are you?

inside these walls, a forest  
i lead you down the worn path  
to a fire blazing at the center

it’s just us dancing there —  
adjust angles, rhyme rhythms  
dig holes with feet and fingers

you haven’t visited in years  
moonlight in an empty room  
i’ve never been, but will again

draw maps into memory  
twist silver, pink, and blue  
the way back is circular

## [mirror](https://chromato.graphics/mirror)

i’m sorry i bumped into you.  
i thought you were a mirror.  
your clear surface showed  
what they saw of me then.

parties are meant for diffusion,  
but we focused instead.  
twisting the lens to almost  
make out what was there.

i’m sorry i couldn’t touch you.  
i thought you were a mirror.  
i feared leaving greasy prints  
for everyone to see.

museums of mailboxes and phones  
reveal past and future connections.  
a present —  
behind smudged display glass.

i’m sorry you didn’t see me  
waving at you in the city.  
i thought you were a mirror.  
you weren’t yet waving back.

being gay is hard sometimes.  
hotel bathrooms get steamy,  
you can’t always get the right angle  
before the image blurs.

i’m sorry we were interrupted.  
i thought you were a mirror.  
i never dreamed anyone would  
walk through it and shatter the glass.

i need to move but i can’t sleep.  
some things aren’t done yet.  
i’m hiding from sunrise, from men,  
under blankets and cardboard towers.

i’m sorry i looked so long.  
i knew you were a mirror,  
but i couldn’t spot the vanishing point.  
some reflections distort; yours perfects.

## [poke](https://chromato.graphics/poke)

door opens— am i the fool?  
gloves snap, now i’m playing my role  
unstained steel tray cradles your tools  
you wash me clean, i cede control

you sketch small leaves in purple ink  
i play with you, this is our game  
when it’s all done, what will they think?  
art, artist, work— all share a name

calmly you ask “_ready for stabs?_”  
there’s not a way for me to know  
is this your temple or your lab?  
we share one breath, it’s time to go

your sword and your eyes penetrate  
music and pain blanket my brain  
sometimes we should disregulate  
questions pour out, blood from a vein

hours pass as you make passes  
pricks turn into private pleasure  
when we are through, our flesh collapses  
every mark is made forever

## [birdcage](https://chromato.graphics/birdcage)

you ask me if i’m okay  
⸻ with elevators?  
which strikes me odd,  
the way your eyes do

we board & take flight  
to the control room, 42  
teacups on brass hooks  
carefully cluttered views

press my buttons, down  
with the same force you  
use to operate machines.  
the right pressure matters

the doors close around  
your fingers, lights flicker  
surging harnessed power  
i can’t look away, i won’t

we fall together back to  
earth where we stumble  
into your unmarked van.  
click of clear recognition

the next time i step into  
your cage you kiss my  
eyes closed and pull a  
lever  
          that  
                  **stops**  
                             time

we’re suspended⸺ trapped  
in moments of wrought iron  
pressed against their grates  
and each other’s full frames

             for as long  
             as we are,  
             we get to  
             be happy

## [atlantic<br>  pacific](https://chromato.graphics/atlantic-pacific)

i often wake three hours before  
your sunrise calls for a response  
logbook already soaked with ink  
we laugh, but even if we could,  
_why constrain our outporings?_

one winter day you ask for  
notes on undersea strings  
aware of both the timbre  
and tempo of these songs  
we start singing together

i fall into an evening rhythm  
talking and yes moaning into  
the phonograph, my head then  
swallowed by the brassy cone  
our voices sound better inside

when you open your ears again  
there’s so much weather to hear :  
wind and rain and quiet calm that  
lasts too long and means too much  
we keep sailing even without a map

true, land divides us more than sea,  
but these two coasts call to us both  
maybe it’s the sirens or the sounds  
of wavecrash against the shore —  
the dangers of unfathomed depths