The forest is full of weapons like ours.
A white hind—
I guess it has pleased his Caesar to make
him free. It starts to rain. The laurel droops.
Lately, something has taken hold
of me—not hunger, not shame. It is like a flower
blooming in the injury.
Our sneakers in the doorway, our black cellphones
in our jackets on the floor.
We sleep among skins, I bleed
in your mouth. The flesh
anymore. Now it can lie down.
Now it can sleep.