Opium

Sitting here voided

next to

artificial waterfalls,

listen.

Look

at the man

and his luggage

a black suitcase

like his face

an unusually shy face

but you thought

all black guys

were hung.

Is he not?

You decide he is

but is shy

because

he is a sentimental

person.

You like that.

If you were vaginal

if that’s his thing

if you were human

he would come

to you

first.

You suck small

dark flies

into your mouth

as if

they are leaves,

falling, brittle

scraps, drifting

listless

and slow about

the fountain

the park bench

and you sway a little

as if outstretched

on a

precipice,

nearly to topple

to fall quavering before

the dazed hillscape.

Sifting through

the tired air,

an uncertainty like

fear,

itself a calm scattering.

The man with luggage

comes over and

asks you

for something

a dollar

a hug

a rimjob

who cares

and his pores

are dry

and you are separate

equivocal beneath the droop

of silhouetted branches

dripping temperate

flakes,

crusted and gray,

in the tired air,

a floating,

as of ash and cinder

off a fire.