Open up the screen door, friend
I’ll borrow your matchbook
Tonight, I wish my love to mosquitoes
They are the darkness in my veins
Taking my blood because I never needed so much
I don’t crush them
when I see them standing in my arm hairs
like cranes, it’s their work
They couldn’t live another way, I’m sure
My God,
you wouldn’t fault me for the work of my hands?