burrow

morning’s a small dog i coax
from my warm bed, and when your scent
remains within my sheets i want
to keep that pup at bay until
the seas concede to the red blooms
of algae murdering sea life,
inaugurating the sixth mass
extinction to have cleansed this planet
since it first was sullied by desires
we might call creaturely, i call

you, you don’t answer,
blow me off next time i text,
my cock (if that’s the name
that i’m now calling it) inside
your mouth was like
yours in my hand, i couldn’t
tell the difference, i would like

to write a poem that offers what
pornography, i mean
porn at its best, can make
me feel, just good,
escape that maybe
names but doesn’t
attempt to recuperate
how unjust power produces
what i want to come to,
what i don’t. a small dog

wouldn’t whimper half as much
as i do when i feel how capsized
i am before single bodies’
beauty, even when
i know collective beauty’s more
reliable, more ethical
and needful now. if i invite
the dog back to my bed and tuck
us in, will we be suffered to
just slumber for a while longer,
just a while, just for a little
moment longer

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Author photo credit to Salvatore Antonio.