1.


hot
august
it’s all arm, cherries
pits spitting
humid, spitting
whole
afternoons
you say
larb
and I say
yes
and the sheets
will barely be
remembered–
who lets
a college kid
house-sit
anyway? It’s
all
pits, hot
mouths lost
phone
numbers.


2.


cold
mid-winter prospect
heights
he says
hey I say
hello, the warm
startle of
breath on
breath, and later
butter, but
squid curry
first our
faces vague
with heat in
an anywhere
restaurant, until
the hallway
bathroom, shared and
I say
oh
so this
is Brooklyn.