Meet me at 7:18 sharp,
where I greet your right hand.
Lift it up. Swear.
Make a promise on my cheek
to come into the city slow.

We’ll have a picnic there.
We’ll be animals of the meat market avenue—
pulsing our natures, as incomplete halves
making a quiet sound
as only the cars do on red,

or of your rouge lips enclosed;
how you’re dolled to...