Matters of Keeping Up

hot moon surfacing in the slender alley,
like a dorsal fin cut from the asphalt—

tailing us home, tracing the widths
of our shoulders in dark chalk—

feels as though it’s hot after us,
your strides are so long and deliberate
between the potholes and gaping mouths of the street
opening wide, just begging for the tips
of your high heels, as schools of silver fish swim
against the current of waters along the curb,
flashing and fighting to stay in place
like children stomping up the escalators
ecstatic in the wrong direction—

letters blaze out in electric shop signs
O’s blink on and off, as if tickled by lost lashes
or pursing neon lips to harmonize with car alarms
singing up windows of the sheerest buildings—

this moon follows, swollen and unapologetic
like a fruit, landed at the roots of its tree
branches of unconditioned curls for leaves,
shoelaces and vines of stranded kites
hanging from their tails—

when we begin to put our hands on each other,
i catch its shape leering
like an obese woman sprawled out on the futon—

all focus is stripped, you are redressed in clasps
and streetlamps shudder,
sparking on again like indignant birthday candles