Two full cypress trees in the clearing

intertwine in a way that almost makes

them seem like one. Until at a certain angle

from the blue blow-up pool I bought

this summer to save my life, I see it

is not one tree, but two, and they are

kissing. They are kissing so tenderly

it feels rude to watch, one hand

on the other’s shoulder, another

in the other’s branches, like hair.

When did kissing become so

dangerous? Or was it always so?

That illicit kiss in the bathroom

of the Four-Faced Liar, a bar

named after a clock, what was her

name? Or the first one with you

on the corner of Metropolitan

Avenue, before you came home

with me forever. I watch those green

trees now and it feels libidinous.

I want them to go on kissing, without

fear. I want to watch them and not

feel so abandoned by hands. Come

home. Everything is begging you.