He is hollyhock kisses and

  brambleberry thorns. He is layers 

   of sediment on the edge 

  of the tide pools, writhing and withering, 

   lapping at uncertain toes. he is bitter cold, 

  crisp corn husks left out

   to dry. thick air that sticks to my sleeves, dripping

   molasses. broken honeycombs by determined workers, amaranth oozing 

    from gap teeth. he is a window sill, 

  barn owl calls and

   burnt out street bulbs. Kentucky Derby horns at the

  starting line. he is sweet desire, ripe 

   persimmons, the wooden bowl. chipped green tile 

  by the bathtub lip. 

    He is seeped with warm anger, combed hair 

  concealing picked acne scars. he is rotation, the hotel door, worn 

   bottom and dragging trolley cars. 

  fence posts with unlocked gates, chorus of thistledown, simmering 

   apple spice, the final whiff 

  of the cinnamon stick under the stove’s 

   fluorescence. 

He is clementines, periwinkles, oysters on shimmery wet tables in Cape Cod. the harmonica note

  that fills the bar, the beer label thumb-worn. overall buttons 

    and canvas tote straps. the hot dog stand 

  in Central Park, smelling of home and nostalgia 

   and games where the team gave up the run in the ninth inning. he is 

  raspberry clouds and watermelon 

   rinds, summer’s 

  mournful

   sunset. He is cow’s milk and speckled spots, 

  the selfless sparrow atop the cattails. 

He is maybe, most importantly, he is my lover. 

  broken collarbone and dimpled persuasion, 

   knobby knees resting 

  on the front porch.

He is, maybe, most importantly, the fingers 

   that pluck the cigarette from mine to illuminate the cold air by the musky smoke from sweet lips.