These moments at 5 am where
I cough up paint like blood and
hasten to arrange meaningful form
asking what does sex look like as it stretches
A gaping hole of interlocking pieces
thrown up casually into place
like taking a midnight drive on a
country back road with
no plan or reason
pressing the pedal
out of boredom
and something succulent springs
"Maybe the canvas is already sex," you say,
"with all the woven strings tightly bound, legs over thigh, over knee, over leg."
"Well that is beautiful" I say, "but I still
wanna see all that dripping red paint"