i invited you to make vulva candles with my friends.

melted crayon wax looked like salmon sashimi

in yonic molds on the bar between tequila drinks,
and i left with the wrong girl [sorry], but she had a rack

for my bike on her car. you and i ran a mile home
from a church the night we finally had sex.

petrichor, although I don’t recall it raining. now
i remember-watch it through a kinetoscope

but can’t see you at all in the interstices. myself either. just wet
grass and morning breakfast hash. geoff dyer says ANTIQUITY IS NOT

WHAT CAN BE DEDUCED, BUT, EXACTLY, WHAT REMAINS, so we’re ruins
in a yellow bedroom, modernity in the stuff we can’t really remember.

the white wick comes right out of the vagina,
unburned to keep the wax petals from yeast-itching

and wilt. candles sit on bookshelves, wondering if pinprick
blazes we see in the sky know their star-mommies are dead

and embalmed already, and feel their bare feet in the wet
grass on the way to 2:39am on a tuesday, when i’m writing.

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