after the giving, when you thought he had gone at last,
you realize you do not know how
to stop arcing your back in sleep.
you jerk off in a gas station bathroom in east arizona.
for the video cameras, for his blank ghost
the lens is mute, iridescent, and curved.
you dry your hands and buy a slushee,
feel like there is a spongy rind in your cheek,
bitter rind under your tongue — and you trip, leggy
over the low yellow-edged partition.
as night expels the stiffness from its highways
in central south cali, the grape fields begin
to smell like fatty brine of atlantic piertown.
down to the roses, down to the beach tomatoes—you are not
surprised. you did earn this, after all.