If the bananas rot, make bread. 

Leave flour on your shirt, 

shoulders cut, a sailor’s

tattoo whispering to your armpit.

 

When you lick his chest,

all eyes gaze back, all eyes enough 

for the angel hiding under hand-

sized wings. The world opens in bread,

and in your mouth; he offers you a vine

and take it. He offers you an oven 

of rodents and larvae wintering, take that too.