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.
