Between two men drinking from the same
dirty glass, a choice
that often goes unexpressed—green
olives passed back
and forth in the mouths of a father and son
in a corner booth
where cock and regrets have never spoken
openly about what is
most desired, a moment spreading its rash
longings deep enough
where no one can touch, soothe, or work
out all the tension
balled-up into knots— yoga and mindfulness
on a mat drenched
with sweat unable to compensate for faces
ramming up against
pubic bone where one can still inhale
rising bread. The world
was wrong. Love allows our tongues to follow
thirst to whatever needs
to be reached—a cube of ice on a hot stove
riding its own melting.