I send you poems,
bound. You
send back a nipple.
It is so soft, so
tight, a wee
stone polished
by a pocket’s
dark. I want more
because humans
do. I send new
poems. I wait.
I sit by the road
though the road
may be only a
metaphor. I stare
at the sky. It
seems hardened,
yet I desire
one raindrop,
because a rain-
drop is a vase
for small reflections.
I’ve gotten away
from expecting
what you will send
me. To return: I
am thinking
ear, toe, a sifting
of pubic hair. I’ve
gotten away from re-
lying on recompense.
Still, your eye would
be nice. Then you
will see how determined
I am to wait, and gather.