This poem is like the deep breath he takes when he hears new music,
a series of songs that he will inject into his blood all at once.
He will make love to it like it was me—secret oxygen, his passion,
hollow stone tower, redness.
He reads from the Book of Strings: his church, his god, his religion,
and I am his sweet sin. I am the mosquito who drinks the goblet
running over with his blood—melted sugar, craved salt,
skinny water, luster.
I swim in what he steals, in his art. His words take on flesh—my flesh. He paints
with his tongue, and those words grow legs—are they my legs?—
to crawl back beneath him, pay him homage—king of fallen angels, blade
of grass, lonely granite column, smoke.