PORTRAIT OF MIKEY His eyes are a place where I go so that no one will see me. There is a height in his eyes that he looks down from. I wake up beneath it and see him moving in the window. I remember this world, if not how I got here. This is the world with no place that does not see you. The smell of his hair is a circadian clock, sensing ending days. My hand is inside a flower that closes so the night will not see it. Its dawnself is soft next to the skull where it likes to be touched. Its midnightself is harsh on the shoulders where he bleached it years ago. The taste of his neck is a fact. The taste of his neck is proof that there is an earthly structure to house the smell of his neck. There is a forgiveness in his lips, the kind that comes on a long walk. How is it that I took so long to arrive? How is it that I strayed so far? The taste of how this does not matter is the taste of his lips. His hands are a place where I go so that no one will remember me. I don’t expect to get there when my hands are touching his. When his hands are touching mine, everyone I’ve ever known is sailing across a river where he is spread thin like a black dye. The taste of his perineum is in the middle of the air. I climb up to it and jump. My wings fail. I fall and climb again. The swelling of green generations exhales into his cock. You don’t have to sink into the ground to find the seed. The sun will do that. The taste of his thighs is sinking into the ground. I am moving away, allowing the sun to find it. He moves closer: there is no place here that does not see you.