Paradise is a Bullet Train
The slice of a parted mouth.
The white peafowl
on a manor lawn. Honeydew steeped
in its own sugar.
Cold front in a high rise town.
Paradise is a man like plaited wire.
Stripped to his bowstring
back and fevered lungs.
Superb, elegant hands.
I want a man who sets sharp teeth
against the day like an archangel holds fire.
I want the level mind
that won’t give in
to despair. Kisses concrete
if it has to. Dear tongue
weighted with parables. Dear seam of an open shirt.
Paradise is a bullet train aimed at vermillion.
Hinge of a collarbone. Notch
so pure it hurts.